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grapegarden) wrote2012-07-23 05:21 pm
grapegarden) wrote2012-07-23 05:21 pm
Entry tags:
50 Shades of MST
By now, I'm sure you all have heard of the infamous 50 Shades of Grey. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and MST the first chapter. :D Instead of subjecting fictional characters to this publishing phenomenon like I would normally do, all commentary will be made by yours truly, Insane Purin/Shamanic Shaymin.
Credit goes to Darke for the Old Spice joke. ;D
Title: 50 Shades of MST
Author: E.L. James/Shamanic Shaymin
Fandom:Twilight 50 Shades of Grey
Genre: Erotica/MST
Rating: R
Warnings: 50 Shades of Grey is its own warning.
Ships/Characters:Edward/Bella Christian/Ana (original), Me (MST)
Finished: Yes. Doing the entire book would rob me of my sanity. :(
Trivia: The original fanfic was called "Master of the Universe." Insert He-Man joke here!
SELECT YOUR NARRATOR FOR 50 SHADES OF GREY:
A. Gilbert Gottfried
B. Skeletor
C. William Shatner
D. Christopher Walken
E. Brad Jones (aka "Cinema Snob")
F. GlaDOS
G. Pinkie Pie
Any of the above who read this dreck will make it a hundred times more bearable. Trust me.
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won't behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.
Here's some advice for writing better than E.L. James: Never ever introduce a character—especially if your narrative is written from the 1st person—and describe their appearance by having them look at a mirror or a reflective surface. It’s cliché as hell and dull to boot, and I groaned when I read the opening paragraph above. Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman illustrate further why this is a bad idea in How NOT to Write a Novel:
To be fair, Ana does notice the ugly parts of her appearance, namely her bed-hair. But do we need to look at the mirror to know that her hair is too frizzy? If she had slept with her hair wet, she would feel the difference. Mittelmark and Newman also bring up a related problem called "The Kodak Moment," where we can only know what someone looks like through a photograph. The point is that we think of what people look like so much that we don’t need to consult a picture of them to know. Hell, I can tell you what Shadow the Hedgehog looks like right now, and I don't need fanart or anything.
Speaking of fanart, here's how I imagine our heroine Ana. She did say her eyes were too big for her face...
Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industri¬alist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.
Yeah, how dare Kate get sick! Especially when she can choose the days to feel like crap! Why send Ana to interview for her, though? Isn’t this Kate's big moment? Also, if Ana has all this homework to do (and a job!), why can’t Kate ask someone else? You know, someone with spare time?
Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room.
"Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please," Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice.
That explains the rescheduling question, but it still makes no sense. Why Ana? Other than "So she could meet Edward McDoucheypants Cullen," 'cause really.
How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
It's officially established that Ana is a self-righteous jerk. Yaaaaaaaay!
"Of course I'll go Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"
"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes,
I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."
"Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you’re my lifesaver."
Why doesn't Ana say no? Is it an illegal word for women to say? I mean, I know she's your friend and all, but you've got schoolwork to do! Is Kate so sick that she can't tell Ana anything about the person she's interviewing, not even a quick explanation? It's like she just pushed her friend into the Pokémon world without a Pokédex, or assigned her as a GM in "Dungeons and Dragons" without any books.
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she's my dearest, dearest friend.
Prediction: We'll never see Kate do any reporting or journalism ever.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
Trivia: "Wanda" is the name that Wanderer, the main character from Stephanie Meyer's The Host, had for her human form. Coincidence? Probably.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Grey House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Sorry Grey, even the mini fortresses owned by the Koopalings ("Super Mario World") and Boom Boom ("Super Mario Bros. 3") are bigger than yours!
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
Her credit card even has a watermark!
"I'm here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh."
Anastasia Steele… which shows in certain address books as Steele, Anastasia. "Steal Anastasia." Think about it.
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.
This is why you shouldn't ship people off to interviews at the last minute. Say goodbye to your career, Kate!
"Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
Ana: I'm just like Carrie White, 'cause everybody's laughing at me! Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.
"Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
Grey needs to steal 40 cakes (as much as four tens!), and then he'll complete his transformation as an evil business tycoon.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Kate for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.
When I keep asking the same plot-hole related question over and over again and the narrative never answers me, we're in trouble. Why Ana? Why send a shy and busy college student with no self-esteem and no interest in business to interview an important CEO of a major cooperation when any other more experienced or interested friend would do? This would make much more sense if Ana was the journalist herself, if she was the one who arranged the interview with Mr. Grey instead of Kate. That way, Kate won't have to exist as a mere plot device and Ana could be introduced to Grey without having to rely on a ridiculous chance coincidence. Wait. That would mean Ana would have to be proactive, and we can't have that. Screw fixing plot-holes, our narrator's a doormat whether realism likes it or not!
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Too bad my sympathy for Miss Steele is steadily dropping. Ask someone. Read a brochure. Borrow a computer and look him up online. DO SOMETHING.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
Sympathy = Gone. Ana hates blondes, and wastes no opportunity to make snide comments about them in her head. Despite the fact that A. The blondes were nothing but polite and respectful to her. B. They have to dress "immaculately" because they can't look like slobs in business. C. They're doing their jobs. They're not brainwashed, robotic maids because they act professional. Get a grip, Steele.
"Miss Steele?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Um – no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
"My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes."
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Steele."
"Thank you."
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
50 Shades of Grey: a daring tale of forbidden desires, pulse-racing action and... a glass of water. RIVETING.
REWRITE TIME:
Not perfect, but shorter. Better yet:
You don't have to write like Ernest Hemingway, but it's not necessary to go tl;dr either.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Grey."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!
"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.
"Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
After all the suspense we've gone through, the glass of water is forgotten! It never had the chance to be sipped. What a shame!
"You don't need to knock – just go in." She smiles kindly.
Nevermind that he'd appreciate that, since he's supposedly such a busy guy!
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he's so young.
O HAI BELLA. We forgotten this used to be a "Twilight" fanfic. Don't worry. Being clumsy isn't a flaw, especially when it's used for your convenience.
"Miss Kavanagh." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
Originally, Christian was gonna have an afro, but he looked too much like Taichi from Digimon, so I settled with Marcus from the Arceus movie instead.
"Um. Actually–" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
Christian has one of those prank buzzers hidden in his hand. Gotcha!
"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey."
Translation: "Miss Kavanagh is sick, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind if use your thesaurus, Mr. Grey."
"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English Literature with Kate, um… Katherine… um… Miss Kavanagh at Washington State."
Which is ironic, 'cause this series is barely even proofread.
"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure.
"Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local artist. Trouton," says Grey when he catches my gaze.
"They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
Christian: How did you know there were 36 paintings at a glance?
Ana: Shh, I'm counting the furniture now.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
If I took a shot for each time Ana blushes/flushes in this book, I'd be in the hospital.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate's questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.
"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss Steele," he says.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?"
"After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?"
I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don’t mind."
Ana: I'll be turning this in to the police when I'm done. PROBLEM, CHRISTIAN? *trollface.jpeg*
"Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
Meanwhile, the book can't figure out how old Christian's supposed to be.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
Ana: Is it true you're into BDSM?
Christian: No.
"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
"You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
Christian: I cheated everyone out of their coins in Mario Party. I lost all my friends, but it was worth it! *sniffle* Com #2 and I used to go karting together.
"Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."
"Maybe you’re just lucky." This isn't on Kate’s list – but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
He's arrogant? You think?
"I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"
Christian: Silly 99%. It's not my fault that they're so lazy! *trollface.jpeg*
"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Gee, sounds like Donald Trump! And Henry Ford, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs… dear god, they must be doing their jobs, just like those silly blonde secretaries!
"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.
Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc: "Big Brother Christian is Watching You."
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that.
Ana: GEE. IT SURE IS BORING AROUND HERE.
Christian: MAH SUB, THIS CONTROL IS WHAT ALL TRUE BUSINESSMEN STRIVE FOR.
"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft.
"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak.
Christian: LOOK AT YOUR MAN, NOW BACK TO ME, NOW BACK AT YOUR MAN, NOW BACK TO ME. SADLY, HE ISN'T ME. BUT IF HE STOPPED BEING NICE AND SWITCHED TO DOUCHEBAGGERY HE COULD ACT LIKE HE'S ME.
"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."
By 40,000 people, he means 40,000 Oompa-Loompas.
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.
"Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.
"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me.
I'm... pretty sure that's not how an incorporation works. I know nothing about business and have no interest in it, but even I think this is fishy.
I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research.
But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tack.
Like Big Mac always said: "Eeyup."
"And do you have any interests outside your work?"
"I have varied interests, Miss Steele." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"
"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
"Well, to 'chill out' as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies."
*coughphysicalcough*
I glance quickly at Kate’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.
"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?
"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?"
"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts."
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.
"Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."
"Why would they say that?"
"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.
"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Kate's list.
"I'm a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off.
"Why did you agree to do this one?"
"Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."
I know how tenacious Kate can be. That’s why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.
As I've said already, Ana should've been the reporter instead of her friend. The only reason this story started at all is because Kate is the only one who actually makes things happen. Ana, on the other hand, is a self-righteous doormat who does nothing but feel sorry for herself and hold contempt for anyone she feels is "persecuting" her. Why isn't Kate the main character again?
"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"
"We can't eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat."
"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?"
He shrugs, very non-committal.
"It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense – feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.
Awwwwwww! He wants to feed the world's poor! Only one problem…
Christian would starve entire countries in Africa just because he has the power. Therefore, E.L. James just backfired in trying to portray his "soft side" and made him even worse than before. GOD HE'S SO DREAMY.
"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"
"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me."
Carnegie's: Shit, I hadn't intended my principles to promote domestic violence!
"So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak.
"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."
"You sound like the ultimate consumer."
"I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes.
Christian: I also like vore.
Ana: What?
Christian: Nothing.
Ana: You know you're being recorded, right?
Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Kate has enough material now? I glance at the next question.
Ana: What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Christian: What do you mean? An African or European swallow?
Ana: Huh? I... I don't know that.
Christian: *presses a button on his desk and a trap-door opens beneath Ana* NEXT!
"You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?" Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he's not offended. His brow furrows.
"I have no way of knowing."
My interest is piqued.
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele." His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course – if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. I move on quickly.
At this point, Ana is rivalling Strong Bad in how many times she says the word "crap".
"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."
"That's not a question." He's terse.
"Sorry." I squirm, and he's made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"
"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."
"Are you gay, Mr. Grey?"
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions? Damn Kate and her curiosity!
Ana: Are you a control freak?
Christian: I don’t care.
Ana: Do you mind if I nosedive into private family history?
Christian: I’m a little unnerved, but I don’t care.
Ana: Are you gay?
Christian: AGHFISHGSKJGHSG GET OUT OF MY OFFICE
"No Anastasia, I’m not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
"I apologize. It's um… written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
He cocks his head to one side.
"These aren’t your own questions?"
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.
"Err… no. Kate – Miss Kavanagh – she compiled the questions."
"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.
What does a guy's sexuality have to do with owning his own business company? I thought this was a professional interview, not a gossip column! Does Kate run tabloids at her newspaper or what? What was even the point of having that question? You don't need to spell out that this is a heterosexual romance, E.L. James, I think I knew that from reading the back cover. If the Unfortunate Implications about Christian hiring only white blonde chicks wasn't enough, this subtle jab at homosexuality was completely unnecessary.
"No. She’s my roommate."
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.
"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth.
"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic.
"That explains a great deal."
Nevermind that Ana already told him this before the interview. I've got a goldfish memory, E.L. James! Enlighten me again!
There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
"Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."
"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me.
"Very well, Mr. Grey," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.
Christian: Oh, that was my mother on the phone there. She was out doing a little Christmas shopping... She was asking if I wanted anything at McDonald's.
"Where were we, Miss Steele?"
Oh, we're back to 'Miss Steele' now.
"Please don't let me keep you from anything."
"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His gray eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.
"There's not much to know," I say, flushing again.
"What are your plans after you graduate?"
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Kate, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals.
Ana: Popping babies and making sammiches for my perfect alcoholic husband.
"I haven't made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams." Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.
Repetition, repetition, repetition. NEXT!
"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?
"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm musing out loud again.
"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde.
Dye your hair Ana, then you can angst over "dumb blonde" jokes.
"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.
"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive."
"You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey."
"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.
Finally! This insipid interview made me want to take a nap.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Steele." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
Ana: Dammit, I forgot about that prank buzzer!
"Mr. Grey." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele." He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.
"That's very considerate, Mr. Grey," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.
"Did you have a coat?" Grey asks.
"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.
The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning gray eyes gaze at me.
Freddy Krueger could look like Don Juan and he'd still not be anyone you'd want to meet in a dark alley.
"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.
"Christian," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
Alas, Christian's growing obsession has him hoisted by his own petard...
THE END
Credit goes to Darke for the Old Spice joke. ;D
Title: 50 Shades of MST
Author: E.L. James/Shamanic Shaymin
Fandom:
Genre: Erotica/MST
Rating: R
Warnings: 50 Shades of Grey is its own warning.
Ships/Characters:
Finished: Yes. Doing the entire book would rob me of my sanity. :(
For Niall: the master of my universe
Trivia: The original fanfic was called "Master of the Universe." Insert He-Man joke here!
SELECT YOUR NARRATOR FOR 50 SHADES OF GREY:
A. Gilbert Gottfried
B. Skeletor
C. William Shatner
D. Christopher Walken
E. Brad Jones (aka "Cinema Snob")
F. GlaDOS
G. Pinkie Pie
Any of the above who read this dreck will make it a hundred times more bearable. Trust me.
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won't behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.
Here's some advice for writing better than E.L. James: Never ever introduce a character—especially if your narrative is written from the 1st person—and describe their appearance by having them look at a mirror or a reflective surface. It’s cliché as hell and dull to boot, and I groaned when I read the opening paragraph above. Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman illustrate further why this is a bad idea in How NOT to Write a Novel:
"What Color Am I?
Where the character must be in front of a mirror to know what she looks like.
Melinda paused to inspect herself in the mirror. A girl with a nice body and a pretty face stood reflected there, with medium-sized breasts that stood up proudly in her halter top. She gave her long straight cinnamon hair a perky toss and decided Joe would be crazy to let her go.
The reader wants to know what your characters look like. But how do you get your point-of-view character to rattle off his height, weight, and skin tone? Easy! Frog-march him to the mirror! Unfortunately, this is so obviously a convention of bad fiction that it might as well read, "Looking in the mirror, Joe saw a tall, brown-haired man, trapped in a poorly written novel."
When the reader looks in a mirror, what she notices is not the color of her hair and the size of her breasts; she notices the hair out of place, the misbuttoned shirt, the smudged lipstick. People don’t notice what they see every day; they see what’s different, and the reader, on some level, will balk.
Making a character think about his own looks is not that difficult. Reminders are all around us. Any encounter with the opposite sex could reasonably cause a character to reflect—knowledgably—on his own appearance. At best, the mirror is an unnecessary detour, because the point-of-view character whom you have dragged there already knows what he looks like. He could relay this information to the reader just as easily from the comfort of the couch." p. 56-57
Where the character must be in front of a mirror to know what she looks like.
Melinda paused to inspect herself in the mirror. A girl with a nice body and a pretty face stood reflected there, with medium-sized breasts that stood up proudly in her halter top. She gave her long straight cinnamon hair a perky toss and decided Joe would be crazy to let her go.
The reader wants to know what your characters look like. But how do you get your point-of-view character to rattle off his height, weight, and skin tone? Easy! Frog-march him to the mirror! Unfortunately, this is so obviously a convention of bad fiction that it might as well read, "Looking in the mirror, Joe saw a tall, brown-haired man, trapped in a poorly written novel."
When the reader looks in a mirror, what she notices is not the color of her hair and the size of her breasts; she notices the hair out of place, the misbuttoned shirt, the smudged lipstick. People don’t notice what they see every day; they see what’s different, and the reader, on some level, will balk.
Making a character think about his own looks is not that difficult. Reminders are all around us. Any encounter with the opposite sex could reasonably cause a character to reflect—knowledgably—on his own appearance. At best, the mirror is an unnecessary detour, because the point-of-view character whom you have dragged there already knows what he looks like. He could relay this information to the reader just as easily from the comfort of the couch." p. 56-57
To be fair, Ana does notice the ugly parts of her appearance, namely her bed-hair. But do we need to look at the mirror to know that her hair is too frizzy? If she had slept with her hair wet, she would feel the difference. Mittelmark and Newman also bring up a related problem called "The Kodak Moment," where we can only know what someone looks like through a photograph. The point is that we think of what people look like so much that we don’t need to consult a picture of them to know. Hell, I can tell you what Shadow the Hedgehog looks like right now, and I don't need fanart or anything.
Speaking of fanart, here's how I imagine our heroine Ana. She did say her eyes were too big for her face...
Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industri¬alist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.
Yeah, how dare Kate get sick! Especially when she can choose the days to feel like crap! Why send Ana to interview for her, though? Isn’t this Kate's big moment? Also, if Ana has all this homework to do (and a job!), why can’t Kate ask someone else? You know, someone with spare time?
Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room.
"Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please," Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice.
That explains the rescheduling question, but it still makes no sense. Why Ana? Other than "So she could meet Edward McDoucheypants Cullen," 'cause really.
How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
It's officially established that Ana is a self-righteous jerk. Yaaaaaaaay!
"Of course I'll go Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"
"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes,
I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."
"Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you’re my lifesaver."
Why doesn't Ana say no? Is it an illegal word for women to say? I mean, I know she's your friend and all, but you've got schoolwork to do! Is Kate so sick that she can't tell Ana anything about the person she's interviewing, not even a quick explanation? It's like she just pushed her friend into the Pokémon world without a Pokédex, or assigned her as a GM in "Dungeons and Dragons" without any books.
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she's my dearest, dearest friend.
Prediction: We'll never see Kate do any reporting or journalism ever.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
Trivia: "Wanda" is the name that Wanderer, the main character from Stephanie Meyer's The Host, had for her human form. Coincidence? Probably.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Grey House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Sorry Grey, even the mini fortresses owned by the Koopalings ("Super Mario World") and Boom Boom ("Super Mario Bros. 3") are bigger than yours!
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
Her credit card even has a watermark!
"I'm here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh."
Anastasia Steele… which shows in certain address books as Steele, Anastasia. "Steal Anastasia." Think about it.
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.
This is why you shouldn't ship people off to interviews at the last minute. Say goodbye to your career, Kate!
"Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
Ana: I'm just like Carrie White, 'cause everybody's laughing at me! Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.
"Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
Grey needs to steal 40 cakes (as much as four tens!), and then he'll complete his transformation as an evil business tycoon.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Kate for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.
When I keep asking the same plot-hole related question over and over again and the narrative never answers me, we're in trouble. Why Ana? Why send a shy and busy college student with no self-esteem and no interest in business to interview an important CEO of a major cooperation when any other more experienced or interested friend would do? This would make much more sense if Ana was the journalist herself, if she was the one who arranged the interview with Mr. Grey instead of Kate. That way, Kate won't have to exist as a mere plot device and Ana could be introduced to Grey without having to rely on a ridiculous chance coincidence. Wait. That would mean Ana would have to be proactive, and we can't have that. Screw fixing plot-holes, our narrator's a doormat whether realism likes it or not!
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Too bad my sympathy for Miss Steele is steadily dropping. Ask someone. Read a brochure. Borrow a computer and look him up online. DO SOMETHING.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
Sympathy = Gone. Ana hates blondes, and wastes no opportunity to make snide comments about them in her head. Despite the fact that A. The blondes were nothing but polite and respectful to her. B. They have to dress "immaculately" because they can't look like slobs in business. C. They're doing their jobs. They're not brainwashed, robotic maids because they act professional. Get a grip, Steele.
"Miss Steele?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Um – no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
"My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes."
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Steele."
"Thank you."
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
50 Shades of Grey: a daring tale of forbidden desires, pulse-racing action and... a glass of water. RIVETING.
REWRITE TIME:
"Miss Steele?" I clear my throat before replying.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Grey will be with you in another five minutes. May I take your coat?"
"Oh please."
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Water. Thank you."
Within seconds, a second intern hands me a cloudy glass of ice water before the two ladies return to their desks.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Grey will be with you in another five minutes. May I take your coat?"
"Oh please."
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Water. Thank you."
Within seconds, a second intern hands me a cloudy glass of ice water before the two ladies return to their desks.
Not perfect, but shorter. Better yet:
A second intern offers to take my coat and bring me a glass of water, which I gratefully accept.
You don't have to write like Ernest Hemingway, but it's not necessary to go tl;dr either.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Grey."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!
"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.
"Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
After all the suspense we've gone through, the glass of water is forgotten! It never had the chance to be sipped. What a shame!
"You don't need to knock – just go in." She smiles kindly.
Nevermind that he'd appreciate that, since he's supposedly such a busy guy!
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he's so young.
O HAI BELLA. We forgotten this used to be a "Twilight" fanfic. Don't worry. Being clumsy isn't a flaw, especially when it's used for your convenience.
"Miss Kavanagh." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
Originally, Christian was gonna have an afro, but he looked too much like Taichi from Digimon, so I settled with Marcus from the Arceus movie instead.
"Um. Actually–" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
Christian has one of those prank buzzers hidden in his hand. Gotcha!
"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey."
Translation: "Miss Kavanagh is sick, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind if use your thesaurus, Mr. Grey."
"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English Literature with Kate, um… Katherine… um… Miss Kavanagh at Washington State."
Which is ironic, 'cause this series is barely even proofread.
"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure.
"Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local artist. Trouton," says Grey when he catches my gaze.
"They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
Christian: How did you know there were 36 paintings at a glance?
Ana: Shh, I'm counting the furniture now.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
If I took a shot for each time Ana blushes/flushes in this book, I'd be in the hospital.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate's questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.
"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss Steele," he says.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?"
"After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?"
I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don’t mind."
Ana: I'll be turning this in to the police when I'm done. PROBLEM, CHRISTIAN? *trollface.jpeg*
"Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
Meanwhile, the book can't figure out how old Christian's supposed to be.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
Ana: Is it true you're into BDSM?
Christian: No.
"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
"You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
Christian: I cheated everyone out of their coins in Mario Party. I lost all my friends, but it was worth it! *sniffle* Com #2 and I used to go karting together.
"Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."
"Maybe you’re just lucky." This isn't on Kate’s list – but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
He's arrogant? You think?
"I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"
Christian: Silly 99%. It's not my fault that they're so lazy! *trollface.jpeg*
"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Gee, sounds like Donald Trump! And Henry Ford, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs… dear god, they must be doing their jobs, just like those silly blonde secretaries!
"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.
Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc: "Big Brother Christian is Watching You."
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that.
Ana: GEE. IT SURE IS BORING AROUND HERE.
Christian: MAH SUB, THIS CONTROL IS WHAT ALL TRUE BUSINESSMEN STRIVE FOR.
"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft.
"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak.
Christian: LOOK AT YOUR MAN, NOW BACK TO ME, NOW BACK AT YOUR MAN, NOW BACK TO ME. SADLY, HE ISN'T ME. BUT IF HE STOPPED BEING NICE AND SWITCHED TO DOUCHEBAGGERY HE COULD ACT LIKE HE'S ME.
"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."
By 40,000 people, he means 40,000 Oompa-Loompas.
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.
"Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.
"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me.
I'm... pretty sure that's not how an incorporation works. I know nothing about business and have no interest in it, but even I think this is fishy.
I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research.
But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tack.
Like Big Mac always said: "Eeyup."
"And do you have any interests outside your work?"
"I have varied interests, Miss Steele." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"
"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
"Well, to 'chill out' as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies."
*coughphysicalcough*
I glance quickly at Kate’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.
"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?
"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?"
"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts."
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.
"Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."
"Why would they say that?"
"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.
"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Kate's list.
"I'm a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off.
"Why did you agree to do this one?"
"Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."
I know how tenacious Kate can be. That’s why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.
As I've said already, Ana should've been the reporter instead of her friend. The only reason this story started at all is because Kate is the only one who actually makes things happen. Ana, on the other hand, is a self-righteous doormat who does nothing but feel sorry for herself and hold contempt for anyone she feels is "persecuting" her. Why isn't Kate the main character again?
"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"
"We can't eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat."
"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?"
He shrugs, very non-committal.
"It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense – feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.
Awwwwwww! He wants to feed the world's poor! Only one problem…
"If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications agricultural business and sell up, twenty thousand people the world's poor would struggle to make their mortgage payments eat after a month or so."
Christian would starve entire countries in Africa just because he has the power. Therefore, E.L. James just backfired in trying to portray his "soft side" and made him even worse than before. GOD HE'S SO DREAMY.
"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"
"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me."
Carnegie's: Shit, I hadn't intended my principles to promote domestic violence!
"So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak.
"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."
"You sound like the ultimate consumer."
"I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes.
Christian: I also like vore.
Ana: What?
Christian: Nothing.
Ana: You know you're being recorded, right?
Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Kate has enough material now? I glance at the next question.
Ana: What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Christian: What do you mean? An African or European swallow?
Ana: Huh? I... I don't know that.
Christian: *presses a button on his desk and a trap-door opens beneath Ana* NEXT!
"You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?" Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he's not offended. His brow furrows.
"I have no way of knowing."
My interest is piqued.
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele." His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course – if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. I move on quickly.
At this point, Ana is rivalling Strong Bad in how many times she says the word "crap".
"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."
"That's not a question." He's terse.
"Sorry." I squirm, and he's made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"
"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."
"Are you gay, Mr. Grey?"
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions? Damn Kate and her curiosity!
Ana: Are you a control freak?
Christian: I don’t care.
Ana: Do you mind if I nosedive into private family history?
Christian: I’m a little unnerved, but I don’t care.
Ana: Are you gay?
Christian: AGHFISHGSKJGHSG GET OUT OF MY OFFICE
"No Anastasia, I’m not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
"I apologize. It's um… written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
He cocks his head to one side.
"These aren’t your own questions?"
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.
"Err… no. Kate – Miss Kavanagh – she compiled the questions."
"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.
What does a guy's sexuality have to do with owning his own business company? I thought this was a professional interview, not a gossip column! Does Kate run tabloids at her newspaper or what? What was even the point of having that question? You don't need to spell out that this is a heterosexual romance, E.L. James, I think I knew that from reading the back cover. If the Unfortunate Implications about Christian hiring only white blonde chicks wasn't enough, this subtle jab at homosexuality was completely unnecessary.
"No. She’s my roommate."
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.
"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth.
"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic.
"That explains a great deal."
Nevermind that Ana already told him this before the interview. I've got a goldfish memory, E.L. James! Enlighten me again!
There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
"Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."
"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me.
"Very well, Mr. Grey," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.
Christian: Oh, that was my mother on the phone there. She was out doing a little Christmas shopping... She was asking if I wanted anything at McDonald's.
"Where were we, Miss Steele?"
Oh, we're back to 'Miss Steele' now.
"Please don't let me keep you from anything."
"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His gray eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.
"There's not much to know," I say, flushing again.
"What are your plans after you graduate?"
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Kate, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals.
Ana: Popping babies and making sammiches for my perfect alcoholic husband.
"I haven't made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams." Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.
Repetition, repetition, repetition. NEXT!
"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?
"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm musing out loud again.
"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde.
Dye your hair Ana, then you can angst over "dumb blonde" jokes.
"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.
"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive."
"You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey."
"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.
Finally! This insipid interview made me want to take a nap.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Steele." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
Ana: Dammit, I forgot about that prank buzzer!
"Mr. Grey." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele." He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.
"That's very considerate, Mr. Grey," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.
"Did you have a coat?" Grey asks.
"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.
The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning gray eyes gaze at me.
Freddy Krueger could look like Don Juan and he'd still not be anyone you'd want to meet in a dark alley.
"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.
"Christian," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
Alas, Christian's growing obsession has him hoisted by his own petard...
THE END
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MEher and hate all pretty blondes!", eugh.Great sporking. And the MSPaints at the end were awesome. XD