Camille shrugs out of her blouse. She’s not wearing a bra. The sight of her naked chest is all I need to spur me on to uncover myself. I clumsily drag my top over my head, not caring about removing garments in a sexy way. Camille has pushed her body away from the camera a bit, so more of her is visible, and the sight of her wearing just jeans and nothing else is too thrilling for me to care much for decorum.

“That’s my favorite outfit on you,” I say with a husky voice.

“Yeah? Should I go out in it tonight? Cause a scandal?” She chuckles and flips open her jeans button. “I’m waiting.” Her hand remains on her crotch, not moving.

I unhook my bra and let my breasts spill free. It feels so different to do it while she’s watching me, even more so because she’s watching me on a laptop from so many miles away.

“I want to touch you,” she says. Everything about her face tells me she’s deadly serious.

Instinctively, I start thinking of ways to make it possible. But she’s simply too far away for a quick weekend rendezvous. Since starting my show ten years ago, I’ve fallen ill one single time. My voice had totally gone and there was no way I could appear on television. I was hastily replaced by a news anchor, but it’s not advisable to have the host of The Zoya Das Show replaced by someone else too often. Which is one of the reasons why, over the decade that I’ve done the show, I’ve started insisting on shorter seasons as time has progressed. Making the show is intense and being ready for an energy-draining interview every week takes a toll on the mind and the body. To such an extent that I always feel a little sorry for the guests we have booked for the last episodes of the season, because by then, I’m usually so exhausted I can’t help but give them a little less of myself.

To even think about taking a week off for a quick visit to France is inconceivable. Although the thought has entered my mind. But I adore my job and consider myself fortunate that the network has kept faith in me during the turmoil in TV land of the last few years. I couldn’t possibly feign illness to hop over to France to see my girlfriend. This comes with the job, of course. A job I’m well paid for and get to take a couple of months off from every year.

So when I say, “Me too” to Camille, I mean it from the bottom of my heart but I say it with the full knowledge that there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

“Touch yourself for me,” she says. “I will feel it.”

I believe her.