“Ah, here she is. What did I tell you? Good things come to those who wait.” That’s Ian, I can tell by his deep, buttery voice, and by the inspirational quote, of course.
“Sorry for the wait,” I begin to apologize. But then I stop. Because instead of being a phone call like I thought, it’s a video call.
The black screen with a list of names shifts to show the participants, all in little squares showing their faces. They’re in business suits and dresses. You know—business attire. The neon green camera light on my laptop flashes. And then the screen on my laptop fills with a picture of me.
Well, not of me exactly.
Since, I’m crouched over my computer, which is propped on my bed, the camera actually shows a grainy image of my breasts.
I take half a second to see the entire horror show unfold in front of me.
My breasts, my bra with the word “juicy” written all over it, the bit of roll around my middle, it’s all there, front and center.
My boobs are taking up the entirety of my computer screen.
I do the only thing that any reasonable person would do. I drop to the ground. I fall like a grand piano out of a second-story window and hit the ground with a crash.
I crouch on the ground, squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath waiting for the inevitable uproar.
The “You dare show your boobs on a business call?!” shouts of outrage.
Or, “You’re fired, you crazy flasher!”
Or, “Report to HR immediately!”
But none of that happens.
Slowly, I let out my breath, crack open my eyes and crawl forward on my hands and knees. I dodge the camera and come around the side of my laptop and peek at the screen. On the horrible, horrible video call I can see everyone in their little boxes. Their faces are expectant, but none of them show outrage, horror, or even amusement.
Ian has his usual I’m-too-sexy-for-my-inspirational quotes look going.
Lavinia seems annoyed. That’s her normal look though.
The head of marketing looks expectant. But no one looks like they just had a mid-morning flash.
“Gemma, are you there?” asks Lavinia in an annoyed voice.
“I’m here. Yup, I’m here,” I squeak. “Sorry. My uh, my video isn’t working.”
Right now, it’s showing a very grainy, darkened view of my far wall. Apparently, somehow, all the angels in heaven intervened and no one saw the two ginormous breasts fly across the screen.
“Shall we start then?” asks Ian. “Gemma can share her screen so we can all see her excellent presentation. I for one can’t wait to see what she has to show.”
It’s probably just me, but I sense a whole lot of innuendo in that last sentence. But I glance at the screen from the side and Ian has a perfectly normal business-like smile on his face.
“Of course. I’ll just, umm, screenshare and get started.”
Lavinia hands over control of the video chat to me. Very, very carefully I avoid the camera, open up my presentation on the laptop and share my screen. When the brightly colored picture loads I breathe a sigh of relief and begin the presentation that I spent weeks preparing.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve run through my five-point plan and recommendations, I ask if there are any questions.
One of the marketing firm minions asks about Ian starting a daily vlog. I mute my microphone. While he’s talking I sprint across my bedroom, knock my ankle on the coffee table, curse the darn thing, limp to a pile of clean laundry and throw on a lime green cardigan. Then I rush to the sink, splash my face with water, and frantically rub off the mascara running down my face with a dishes scrubby. I check myself in the wall mirror. The day-old mascara that was running down my face is gone, and my cheeks are now bright red from the frenzied scrubbing. My hair though, still looks like the Eiffel tower sticking off the side of my head. I yank my hair into a top knot, grab a used chopstick off the counter and stick it through the bun.
Good enough.
“Gemma. How about we come back to video and close up the call?” says the marketing consultant.
I rush back to the laptop on my bed.
“Gemma?” asks Lavinia in a sharp voice.
“Of course,” I say. Then I realize I’m still muted. I lunge toward the computer, unmute it, and then, “Of course. Excellent. Excellent,” I say in a firm, all-business sort of voice.
Then I pick up the laptop and position myself in front of the camera.
When I turn the video back on, I see everyone on my screen. Including me, looking perfectly presentable in a buttoned-up cardigan with a stylish bun and chopstick up-do.
A huge wave of relief flows over me. The conference call is nearly over and I didn’t get fired. Thank goodness.
I’m about to thank everyone and tell them I look forward to another successful year of social media marketing when the marketing consultant broaches a new topic.
“One last thing. I did want to speak shortly about the amount of resources we’ll be allocating this year to the inner life mastery campaign.”
Ian tilts his head thoughtfully. “Ah yes. The inner life, what’s hidden underneath all our clothed exteriors. Juicy topic.” Then, Ian looks straight into his camera and raises an eyebrow.
Holy crap.
My mouth drops open and I let out a little choked squeak. He’s talking to me.
He saw. He saw my breasts flash the screen.
Oh no. What do I do?
I look at Ian’s face, but he’s giving everyone a bland business-like expression.
I take a deep breath. If there’s one thing I learned from my ex-husband, it’s this: deny, deny, deny. Even if you’re caught porking on a tabletop, deny.
I keep my expression schooled. Maybe Ian isn’t talking to me, maybe his word-choice was a coincidence. Maybe he didn’t see anything.
“What do you think of using the e-book as a loss leader?” asks one of the marketing consultants.
“I think the idea has vision,” Ian says. “Especially for those who can see past exteriors to the juicy bits underneath.”
Oh no.
He saw.
What do I do?
Just as we’re about to sign off, Ian sends a text over the office chat.
See me in my office at 6.
7