"Do you want to leave the doctor a message?" a southern-sounding voice enquired.
Without thinking, I heard myself declaring, "No, this is an emergency."
What am I saying? I asked myself. But before I could take it back, Hannah was on the line.
I know how intruded on I feel when an actor calls me at home on Sunday to bitch. Better make this good, I told myself.
"I was at an infertility clinic yesterday and passed out," I began. "And now I have some herbs to take, but I'm . . . well, I'm not sure about them."
"What 'clinic'?" she asked. There was no reprimand for calling her on Sunday morning.
When I told her about Alex Goddard, she said little, but she did not sound impressed. Looming there between us like the dead elephant on the living room floor was the fact that she'd specifically warned me not to go near him. And after what had just happened, there was a good case she might be right.
"Can I buy you brunch?" I finally asked, hoping to lure her back onto my case. "I'd really like to show you these herbs he gave me and get your opinion."
"I was just headed out to Zabar's to get something," she said, somewhat icily. Well, I suppose she thought she had good reason. "I'll get some bagels and meet you at my office."
Sunday traffic on upper Broadway was light, and I lucked out and found a parking space roughly two blocks from her building. It was one of the low-overhead "professional" types with a single small elevator and no doorman. When I got there, the lobby was empty.