I text Josh back.
Gemma: Is that the production room?
Josh: Yeah…
I wait. Josh is typing another message.
When it comes through I stare at my phone in surprise.
Josh: It’s not working.
I look around the waiting room, and I’m sort of surprised that no one is staring at me in shock. Did Josh Lewenthal just tell me that he can’t produce a sample?
The news plays on a muted TV near the scheduling desk. All the other couples are either watching it, looking at their phones, or reading a magazine. No one is paying me any attention. I quickly type back.
Gemma: What’s not working?
Josh: It’s a lot of pressure. I need some inspiration. This room sucks.
I blow out a breath.
I mean, I get what he’s saying. It would be hard to get in the mood in a room that looks like a Russian prison cell. The tissue is for you to weep into.
I shift back into my chair and try to think of a solution. Ah, got it.
Gemma: Look up porn on your phone.
I blush and pull at the winter scarf around my neck. I can’t believe I just wrote that.
Josh: I can’t believe you just wrote that.
Ha. I write him back.
Gemma: Well?
Josh: It’s not working. Send me a pic of some skin.
Excuse me? Did he just ask me to send him a dirty picture? Of myself?
Gemma: No way.
Josh: Come on. I need help.
I close my eyes. Fine. If you want something bad enough, you’ll do whatever it takes to get it, even text dirty pics to “The Production Room.”
I stand up and stride to the desk.
“Can I have the key to the bathroom please?”
The same scheduler that was completely disinterested in me last week tosses the key at me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, terrified that she somehow has mind-reading powers and knows exactly what I’m about to do.
I shut the bathroom door behind me. Surprisingly, the bathroom’s really clean. They must’ve actually sent someone over to clean it after Dr. Ingraham called. Huh.
My phone buzzes again.
Josh: They’re knocking on the door, Gemma. The pressure is a bit much here. Skin?
I snort. Then I try to think of the least embarrassing place I can take a picture of that may elicit some sort of reaction.
Ah, got it.
I lift my leg up and set my boot on the toilet. Then I pull up my pants and take a snapshot of my calf. I hit send.
I yank my pantleg down and wait for Josh’s reply.
Josh: Seriously?
I smile. Hey, I tried.
What else, what else?
Well, no one in the history of ever, complained about my breasts, soooo.
I pull off my winter coat, lift up my sweater over my head, dip my camisole low and take a cockeyed cleavage shot of my breasts. As I try to pull my sweater back down I stumble over the trash can and fall back onto the toilet. I hit with a thud and the trash can rattles, making a racket.
I wait a second. My heart beating hard.
There’s a knock on the door.
“You alright in there?”
Oh jeez. It’s the disinterested scheduler.
“Good. Fine. Just…busy.”
Oh lordy. Busy?
I hit send on the photo of my boobs. Then I try to pull myself back together.
My phone vibrates.
Josh: Not a breast man.
Are you kidding me? Not a breast man? I sent him a deep cleavage shot that should have soared him into boner territory.
Gemma: Then what?
I scowl down at the phone.
There’s another knock on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute,” I call. “I’m busy in here!”
I stare at my phone as I wait for Josh to reply.
“Come on…”
I pace back and forth in the small space. Finally, Josh starts to text. Deletes it. Starts to text again, deletes it.
Gemma: Come on. What?
Finally his text comes through.
Josh: Just send a shot of your bare shoulders, or your back.
What? What the weird? Fine.
I pull off my coat and scarf, strip off my sweater, camisole, and bra, and stand with my bare back to the mirror. I look behind me. My hair is down and falls over my shoulders in a straight dark line. My shoulders are narrow, and my back shows the exaggerated curve of my figure. I never noticed or thought about it before, but looking at my smooth skin, the gentle flare of my hips and the curve of my spine, there’s something strangely erotic about a woman’s bare back. I take a shuddering breath. My nipples go hard from the cold air. I look over my shoulder at myself, there’s a strange look in my eyes. I don’t think about it. Instead, I lift up my camera, and snap a shot of my back in the mirror.