by Anna Roberts
...an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug, his iPod, his silver grey tie and – last but by no means least – the key to his playroom.
I like how she gives him his own iPod back as a gift, because she finally got round to making him a mixtape. I think this is supposed to reflect that although she’s poor she gives him ~heartfelt~ gifts. Except she’s now pulling down an editor’s salary and has never had to pay rent, so she just comes off as cheap.
Anyway, that was his birthday present – sex. Because they never have that, ever.
Desire races hot and slick through my blood as my insides tighten with hungry anticipation. Finally!
What do you mean, finally? You were only at it five minutes ago.
Also, she’s still talking about her ‘insides’, which could be her gall bladder for all anyone fucking knows. Or cares, by this point.
More tepid sex. Yawn.
E-mails, dinner, boring.
He asks her stepfather for permission to marry her, which is fucking weird since he should be really be asking her mother - her real mother. But, hey, even though he’s never gone for her neck he’s still Edward Cullen and along with that comes a pile of regressive patriarchal bullshit.
Then she says she snooped in his safe and found his kinky photos of his exes, because Ana is never happy unless she is torturing herself.
She calls her mother, one of the rare voices of sanity in this book, whose first reaction to Ana’s big news is;
"You’re not pregnant, are you?"
“No, no, nothing like that.” Disappointment slices through my heart, and I’m saddened that she would ever think that of me.
What, that you had premarital sex? Holy shit – is this the big M. Night Shyamalan plot twist? Ana suddenly comes down with amnesia and turns into a wilting Victorian flower who is horrified to discover that for the last two books she’s been at it on pool tables and yachts, banged silly in bathtubs and elevators and porked at all hours of the night with no signs of fatigue or cystitis?
Oh. No. It’s not. She’s just a massive, massive hypocrite.
It turns out that Ana is herself the product of a shotgun marriage and Ana asks “Mom, I didn’t really ruin your life, did I?”
God yes. Imagine if you gave birth to a thing like that. I’d be begging for a hysterectomy so that it could never happen again.
But because nobody can stay sane for long in the presence of a Category 5 Mary Sue like Ana, Mom agrees that it’s a super idea to get married to someone you barely know and probably, when all is said and done, don’t even like that much beyond the obvious pelvic attractions.
Then Dickfacehead deposits fifty grand in Ana’s bank account and tells her off for wearing a short skirt in public. Yeah – you can tell this is going to be an idyllic marriage, can’t you?
Finally, just before the chapter ends, Kate turns up to throw a spanner in the works.
“What the fuck is this?” she hisses and waves a piece of paper at me. Completely at a loss, I take it from her and scan it quickly. My mouth dries. Holy shit. It’s my e-mail response to Christian, discussing the contract.
Contract? Do they mean the sex contract they had in book one? And who prints e-mails anymore? Why is...oh, fuck it. I don’t care. It’s the final chapter.
Chapter Twenty Two!
Oh wait – must have missed out chapter twenty one, but you weren’t missing much. It was just the usual soggy softcore porn. Like I say, the author ran out of plot about five chapters ago and had to throw in a helicopter crash to zhush things up, but look how that turned out.
Right, yeah. So what’s eating Kate?
Well, it turns out that Kate thinks the whole contract thing sounds fucked up (it is) and is horrified that Dickfacehead would foist such a thing on a pig-ignorant virgin like Ana. She thinks he’s taking advantage and she is absolutely, one hundred per cent on the motherfucking money. I like Kate. Why can’t this book be about Kate? She’s one of the few minor characters who isn’t a total fucking cretin or an aspiring rapist.
She’s a beacon of hostility in a slinky, bright red dress. She looks magnificent. But why the hell is she going through my clothes? It’s usually the other way around.
This is exactly why you have no right to bitch, Ana. You’re always stealing her things.
“I just want to know you’re okay, Ana,” she whispers.
“I’m fine, Kate. More than fine. Please, Christian and I are good, really good – this is old news. Please ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” she says. “How can I ignore that? What’s he done to you?”
Kate – one of the few characters who inhabits a world approaching something akin to Reality.
“We’re getting married. We’re going to announce our engagement this evening,” he says.
“Oh!” Kate gapes at me. She’s stunned. “I leave you alone for sixteen days, and this happens? It’s very sudden.”
See? Someone is finally making sense. Oh sweet, glorious sense.
Sadly, for all she’s not an idiot, Kate is still a minor character, and as such prone to the plot-warping powers of the Mary Sue. Ana sheds a few tears, pleads with her to not to spoil the evening and Kate is forced to accept that Ana is happy and give her blessing to their stupid fucking sham of a relationship.
Then there’s a birthday/engagement party and Mrs. Robinson is there, and the party rapidly turns into an episode of Footballer’s Wives.
“I neither need nor want your congratulations, Elena. I’m surprised and disappointed to see you here.”
She arches an eyebrow. I think she’s impressed.
No. She’s not, Ana. Trust me. She’s not. She probably thinks you’re a pompous little see-you-next-Tuesday.
“I wouldn’t have thought of you as a worthy adversary, Anastasia. But you surprise me at every turn.”
“I haven’t thought of you at all,” I lie, coolly. Christian would be proud. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than waste my time with you.”
Mrrrreeeeoooow. Hissssssssssssssssss.
“Not so fast, missy,” she hisses, leaning against the door, effectively blocking it. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, consenting to marry Christian? If you think for one minute you can make him happy, you’re very much mistaken.”
Slap her! Pull her hair! Any minute now they’re going to start wrestling and knock over the ice-sculpture and someone’s skirt will fly up to reveal that yes, she’s going commando and yes, she had the full Hollywood down at the salon.
How dare this fucking bitch preach to me? “You’re nothing but a sick child molester, and if it were up to me, I’d toss you down into the seventh circle of hell and walk away smiling. Now get out of my way – or do I have to make you?”
Oh shit – it’s ooooon. Our little Ana is all grown up and she is cunty. (I hate to give her credit, but Mrs. R. is most certainly a paedophile, although at this point she’s a nonce in the way Jack is a rapist – she had to be a child toucher because the main characters are so staggeringly unsympathetic.)
“You’re making a big mistake here, lady.” She shakes a long, skinny, manicured finger at me. “How dare you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. And if you think he’s going to be happy with a mousy little gold digger like you...”
That’s it! I throw the rest of my lemon martini in her face, drenching her.
Given that Ana drinks like a dipsomaniac fish, I doubt there would be enough to drench a fly left in her martini glass, but yeah – carry on. Admit it, this is actually fun.
“Don’t you dare tell me what I’m getting myself into!” I shout at her. “When will you learn? It’s none of your goddamned business!”
She gapes at me, horror struck, wiping the sticky drink off her face. I think she’s about to lunge at me, but she’s suddenly shunted forward as the door opens.
Now, Elena would have had the immediate advantage, due to a fresh manicure and because
she probably actually goes to the gym, unlike Ana, who has less muscle tone than cooked tripe, although by this point she could probably vacuum a rug with her pelvic floor. On the other hand, I think you could rely on someone as self-righteous as Ana to fight dirty – really dirty, so someone is almost certainly going to get kicked in the tits and definitely badly bitten.
Sadly they don’t have a full on Dynasty style catfight, because Dickfacehead comes in. Boo, you whore.
Elena goes full on pantomine villain and the dialogue tags go nuts – even more hissing, shouting, snarling and whispering than usual. Dickfacehead announces that his money is on the mousy little golddigger and Mrs. Robinson leaves in a snit, but not before we find out that Dickfacehead’s mother is really angry at him for getting molested when he was fifteen. Great parenting there, Mama Dickfacehead.
Ana goes up into Dickfacehead’s childhood bedroom so that she can have another one of her exciting personal revelations and so bring the plot, such as it is, full circle.
She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I don’t question how he’s lived his life until recently – but why.
You didn’t figure that out when he told you he liked to fuck and beat skinny brunettes like you because they reminded you of his Mom? Girl, you are dumber than a box of hair.
Then there’s some blah blah about how he’s not going to see Mrs. Robinson again and she’s the one for him and it’s nearly the end. But he has one last romantic surprise for her. He leads her to the boathouse where they fucked in book one. (By this point places where they haven’t fucked have blue plaques to mark the occasion.)
[He] leads me up the wooden stairs. Opening the door at the top, he steps aside to let me in.
My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognisable. The room is filled with flowers...there are flowers everywhere.
And then they had four children, all with names that begin with C, and they lived happily ever after. Oh no, wait – wrong terrible book. That one was at least entertaining.
Anyway, he gives her a rock heavy enough to break her wrist and she remarks on how simple and elegant her huge motherfucking diamond ring is and that’s that.
Then there’s a sort of epilogue about an angry literary type who likes to set fire to helicopters, but that’s probably nothing to worry about.
The End
Fifty Shades Later
An Inevitable Conclusion
Brace yourself for the final excursion into the dysfunctional life of Hanna Neigh (née Squeal) and her brooding, bondage-freak husband, Mr. Neigh.
It’s not easy being the skinny, rich and beautiful wife of a billionaire, especially when you’re in the South of France and the hotel where you wanted to stay has been besmirched by the presence of the trashy romance writer responsible for the infamous ‘Sasquatch Gangbang’ novels. To add further complications to her meaningless existence, Hanna can’t find a decent martini on the entire Cote d’Azur and someone keeps sending her threatening e-mails. Worse, her Inner Goddess keeps reminding her about the part of Book Two where her husband died in a helicopter crash, although that’s kind of her own fault for anthropomorphising aspects of her creaking mental processes in such an incredibly annoying way.
Who is driving the mysterious black van labelled INEPT KIDNAPPERS INC? What really happened to felonious Brony-billionaire Crispian Neigh on the night of the Kleptocrats Only Masqued Ball? Have the ponies stopped screaming yet? And is this the one where they finally do anal? (No)
Confused? You will be.
Incompetent editors, angry birds, sweary children, transvestite workaholics, myopic libertarians and horrible things that happen to My Little Pony all collide in the final part of the anarchic Fifty Shades of Neigh trilogy.
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A Box Full of Ashes
Eliot & O'Hare #1
Three misfits, three smoke breaks and one series of extraordinary events.
An angel appears on Brighton beach, a hospital patient bursts into flames in Plymouth and a goth spontaneously combusts in a churchyard in Sidmouth; it’s all in a day’s work for stage magician and freelance paranormal investigator Francis Eliot. For pathologist Camilla O’Hare it’s nothing short of lunacy, particularly when one of the victims’ bodies disappears from the morgue in the length of time it takes her to answer the phone.
When the two of them join forces to figure out what’s really going on behind the sudden rash of spontaneous human combustions taking the West Country by storm, neither can predict just how weird things are about to get. A missing cat, a dog-eared copy of Dracula, a guitar case full of garlic and a priest so turbulent that even Henry II’s drunken knights would think twice – all add up to a hypothesis so extravagantly nuts that nobody wants to come out and say the V-word.
Except at some point you’re going to have to admit the obvious. Especially when the obvious keeps trying to eat you.
This fast-paced British urban fantasy is the first in a brand new series that will delight fans of Bram Stoker, Jonathan Creek and anyone who was ever sceptical about the idea of sparkling vampires.
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