All You Could Ask For: A Novel by Mike Greenberg Page B

have told him I was wearing absolutely nothing.
    “Just six-inch heels and a smile, sweetie,” I’ve said breathily, time and time again.
    So, it struck me as more than a little ironic that this was the first time, the very first time, that I was genuinely wearing nothing at all, but it wasn’t Scott who called me.
    It was my babysitter, and that turned out to be an emergency.
    Long story.
    Or maybe it isn’t that long. It starts in my house, where Pamela and I could not find a single suitable place to take these pictures. Thankfully, Pamela knows me well enough to know when I am becoming discouraged. She could see the moment was going to be lost if we did not act quickly and so she did; we packed up and went to her house. It was fabulous at her house, even if her house isn’t so fabulous. Pamela is an older divorcée with exquisite taste but not a whole lot of money. The best way to describe her style would be “hippie chic”; she is, after all, a child of the sixties and still flashes peace signs every now and again. So her house is about the way you might expect an aging hippie artist’s house to look: lots of psychedelic colors, groovy lighting, tapestries on the walls, a collection of framed rock ’n’ roll album covers in the living room. It was awesome for me, because it was so not me. There was something very appropriate about doing something as unusual as taking nude photos in a place as unusual as Pamela’s house. I even asked her to fire up some tunes for us. I wanted some rock ’n’ roll, and I wanted it loud.
    “I think I know just the thing,” Pamela said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
    She practically bounced out of the room to hit the music. I started to think this must be what it is like when a model says she clicks with a particular photographer. I always assumed that was just phony Hollywood-speak, but now I could see it is very real. I just knew that Pamela understood exactly what I wanted. I trusted her enough in that moment to put my life in her hands.
    Then the music started. Led Zeppelin.
    Oh yeah.
    I’ll tell you a little secret: I’m sort of a rocker chick. I know I don’t look it. And I know I don’t behave like it anymore. I’m a mother now, a tennis gal, a classroom mom and—hopefully—a hot suburban wife, but inside I’m also still a rocker chick. Aerosmith, Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, I love it all. And in that instant, when Robert Plant’s voice flooded my ears, the only way I can think of to describe the feeling is orgasmic .
    I was rocking out and playing air guitar, and god bless Pamela, who came in banging her head around like we were at Woodstock, and I just don’t know that I’ve had that much fun in years.
    “How about a drink?” I asked her loudly, above the music.
    “What do you have in mind?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “White wine?”
    “Hell no!” Pamela shouted. Her eyes were twinkling again. “I think I know just the thing.”
    Then she was off to the kitchen and I was left to shred it in the living room. As Led Zeppelin rocked out I went right along with them, singing as loudly as I could, on my knees like Tom Cruise in Risky Business .
    “Try this on for size!”
    Pamela was carrying a silver tray, upon which there was a sliced lime, a shaker of salt, a shot glass, and a bottle of Patrón tequila.
    “Are you serious?” I asked.
    “You better believe it!”
    “At ten o’clock in the morning?”
    “Listen to me, sweetheart,” she said, placing the tray down on the coffee table. “I assume you don’t want these pictures to look like ten o’clock in the morning. Am I right?”
    “You are so right,” I said.
    “Okay then,” Pamela said, and poured a shot of tequila into the glass. Then she took my right hand and licked the inside of my wrist. She poured some salt over the spot and raised the glass to me. “Here you go, babe. Let’s do this right!” Without hesitating, I licked the salt, took the