One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [154]
“Sure,” Mindy said. She went into the kitchen. She was feeling sentimental about James. In fourteen years of marriage, they’d never spent more than three nights apart, and now James would be away for two weeks. Would she miss him? What if she couldn’t manage without him? But that, she reminded herself, was silly. She was a grown woman. She did practically everything herself anyway. Well, maybe not everything. James spent a lot of time looking after Sam. As much as she liked to complain about him, James wasn’t all bad. Especially now, when he was finally making money.
“I’ll get your socks,” Mindy said, handing James his cup of coffee. “Do you think you’ll miss me?” she asked, placing several pairs of worn socks into his suitcase and wondering how many pairs he would need for two weeks.
“I can do that,” James said, annoyed by all the attention. Mindy came across a hole in the toe of one of his socks and stuck her finger through. “A lot of your socks have holes,” she pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. No one is going to see my socks,” James said.
“So will you miss me?” Mindy asked.
“I don’t know,” James said. “Maybe. Maybe not. I might be too busy.”
In a last-minute panic, James left the apartment at four-fifteen A. M. Mindy considered going back to sleep but was too keyed up. She decided to check James’s Amazon rating instead. Her computer came on, but there was no Internet service. This was strange. She checked the cables and turned the box on and off. Nothing. She tried the browser on her BlackBerry. Also nothing.
Paul Rice was now up as well. At five A. M. on the dot, he was to launch his algorithm in the Chinese stock market. At four-thirty A. M., he was seated behind his desk in his home office, a cup of café con leche sitting neatly on a coaster nearby, ready to begin. Out of habit, he plucked a pencil out of the silver holder and examined the tip for sharpness. Then he turned on his computer.
The screen flashed its familiar and comforting green—the color of money, Paul thought with satisfaction—and then…nothing. Paul jerked his head in surprise. Powering the computer should have kicked on the satellite system and Internet backup. He clicked on the Internet icon. The screen went blank. Finding a key, he unlocked the cabinet doors behind him and looked inside at the stacked metal hard drives. The power was on, but the array of lights indicating the exchange of signals was black. He hesitated for half a second and then ran downstairs to Annalisa’s office. He tried her computer, which he’d always joked was like a Stone Age tool, but the Internet was out there as well.
“Holy fuck!” he screamed.
In the master bedroom next door, Annalisa stirred in her sleep. At the celebration dinner the night before, the Rices and Brewers had consumed over five thousand dollars’ worth of rare wines before helicoptering back to the city at two A. M. She turned over, her head heavy, hoping Paul’s voice had come from a dream. But there it was again: “Holy fuck!”
Now Paul was in the room, pulling on his pants from the night before. Annalisa sat up. “Paul?”
“There’s no fucking Internet service.”
“But I thought…” Annalisa mumbled, gesturing uselessly.
“Where’s the car? I need the fucking car.”
She leaned over the bed, picking up the handset on the landline. “It’s in the garage. But the garage is probably closed.”
In a frenzy, Paul buttoned his shirt while trying to hop into his shoes. “This is exactly why I wanted that parking spot in the Mews,” he snapped. “For just this kind of emergency.”
“What emergency?” Annalisa said, getting out of bed.
“There’s no fucking Internet service. Which means I am fucked. The whole fucking China deal is fucked.” He ran out of the room.
“Paul?” she said, following him and leaning over the banister. “Paul? What can I do?” But he was already in the hallway, punching the button for the elevator. It was all the way down in the lobby. Glancing at his watch, Paul decided he didn’t have time to wait and began clattering down the steps. He burst into the lobby, waking the night doorman,