Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(14)

“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





Seven agonizing hours later, I’m convinced that Ian is going to fire me. Gah.

It’s only January 2nd and my hopes for the year have taken a hit.

Instead of Josh agreeing to my plan he said no. A hard no.

Instead of getting a promotion at work I’m about to be fired.

It’s nearly six o’clock in the evening. I’m in Ian’s office.

In the years that I’ve worked here, I’ve never ever set foot in Ian’s office. It’s sort of a sacred space that only top-level influencers and celebrities are allowed in. There’s a tasteful waterfall and koi pond, a small putting green, a bar, and a seating area. Ian holds a golf club in his hand and putts a ball. It speeds across the green and lands with a soft clatter into the cup.

He looks up at me and flashes a bright white toothy grin.

I smile at him, but behind the smile I feel queasy. Getting fired isn’t easy.

“Would you like a drink?” Ian asks. He tosses the putter onto a leather couch and strides toward the bar area of his office. His white shirt sleeves are rolled up and I can see a dusting of dark hair on his muscular forearms. “A martini? Whiskey?”

My stomach rolls at the thought of alcohol. I’m still recovering from this morning’s hangover. “A sparkling water if you have it.”

He looks over his shoulder at me and flashes another grin, showing off his chin dimple.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve spent years fantasizing about this man.

I know, I know, he’s a “celebrity persona” and he only dates models and reality TV stars. Plus he dresses like a mannequin in a shop window on Madison Avenue. My sister claims that Ian is about as real as the mannequin. Meaning, he’s as fake as they come.

She thinks he’s a self-styled self-help guru that has made his way into the limelight by playing to the insecurities and neuroses of the masses. But I don’t agree. He has a message that matters, he helps people, and he came from nothing and worked his way to where he is today. Sure, he only dates models and shallow reality TV stars, but maybe I can throw a cliché in here and say that he’s merely waiting for the right woman to come along and love him for who he is. At least in my fantasies that’s what happens.