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Imagine. You're sitting on the edge of your king-sized bed, staring at the telephone, waiting for it to ring.

It's 7pm in LA, which means it's 10pm in Philadelphia, which means he should have called two hours ago.

What could be taking him so long?

There's only one thing. Only one thing you can think of anyway. And it's your worst fear.

You try to push it out of your mind. You run your fingers over the soft surface of your bed,

admiring the massive expanse of silk and velvet and pinks and peach tones.

It's like your own personal Versailles, a private monument to your monumentally successful career.

Such as it was anyway. A year ago, you were so busy. You were lucky to spend a few hours a week

catching a nap in this room. But today? Well, you haven't left it yet. Your thick drapes are

pulled tight against the Los Angeles summer, and you've got the AC set to Arctic Tundra.

But still, your forehead is damp with sweat. You keep having to wipe your palms dry on spike,

the little Yorkie pup shivering beside you. And then it happens.

Honey, it's me, darling. Your husband. Your short, bald, pudgy, bug-eyed, dangerously depressed,

princh-charming. Your recent career dry spell has hit you hard. It's hit him harder.

And when he's out of town, you're sick with worry about what he might do to himself. Are you okay?

I'm fine. I'm fine. Never been better. I don't think that's funny. I'm really worried about you.

That's why I'm calling, dear. You don't need to worry. Not anymore. I'm on the first flight home

tomorrow. I wanted to tell you you were right. I was. About everything. I need help.

I can see that now. I'm going straight to the psychiatrist's when I land.

The words ricochet around your brain like machine gunfire. Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God.

I feel like myself again. I really do. We're going to lick this together. We're going to get back on track.

...