by Anna Roberts
It’s safe to say Jack hasn’t thought this through. And neither has the author. Brace yourself as we plunge into a kidnap plot so full of holes that you could use it to strain pasta.
Jack gives Ana two hours to come up with the cash or he’ll kill Mia. He tells Ana to tell no one or he’ll ‘fuck her up before I kill her’.
Ana’s response is to tell Jack that she needs longer and tries to haggle him up to three hours. She asks for proof that he has Mia but he hangs up.
So, let’s get this clear.
She has no idea if he’s even out of prison. She just assumes he is.
She has no idea if he really has her sister-in-law.
She has two hours to come up with a ludicrous sum of money and no idea where to even make the drop.
On the basis of this information Ana decides to rush home, dress up to make herself look as suspicious as humanly possible, walk into a bank carrying a gun and ask to withdraw five million dollars. In cash.
I’m not even kidding. That happens.
She changes into jeans and a black hoodie and stuffs Chekhov’s Leila’s gun down the waistband of her jeans. Given that Ana is a mere twiglet of a girl and not exactly the kind of fulsomely endowed lady who could smuggle a .38 snub between her tits, you can see how well this attempt at a concealed carry would work out in the real world. And would have extremely far reaching consequences when you walked into a bank.
However, we’ll get to that in its place, because first Ana must escape from Casa del Cretins because her husband keeps her locked up and under the watchful eye of his security detail at all times. After a couple of pages of dicking about she manages to give Sawyer the slip.
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, knowing in my heart of hearts that Sawyer’s probably lost his job. Don’t dwell. I have to save Mia. I have to get to the bank and collect five million dollars.
I’m serious – this is Ana’s plan. Go to bank. Collect five million dollars. It’s not like the police have people who are highly trained in handling ransom scenarios like this.
Ana gets to the bank. Somehow she gets past the metal detectors and security guards despite the fact that she’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and has a gun stuffed down the back of her jeans.
Then she heads to the information desk.
“I’d like to withdraw a large sum of money.”
Ms. Insincere Smile arches an even more insincere eyebrow.
“You have an account with us?” She fails to hide her sarcasm.
Yeah. Nice to know that even in a crisis Ana still takes time out to disparage every other woman who crosses her drooling, braindead path. Of course she’s suspicious, you idiot – you just dressed up as a cartoon pauper and wandered into a fancy-ass bank. Bear in mind that this is also snob-king Christian’s bank, so this isn’t going to be any old bank, darling. This is going to be the Pacific North-West version of Coutts. Would she even be allowed through the door in jeans?
Anyway.
“Yes,” I snap. “My husband and I have several accounts here. His name is Christian Grey.”
Her eyes widen fractionally and insincerity gives way to shock. Her eyes sweep up and down me once more, this time with a combination of disbelief and awe.
There aren’t many phrases more cringeworthy than ‘Do you know who I am?’ but ‘Do you know who my husband is?’ has got to be up there with the worst of them.
Anyway, turns out Christian Grey’s name opens bank doors faster than it opens a gold-digger’s legs, and Ana is shown to a private office where she is immediately cooed over and addressed as Mrs. Grey. Nobody asks her for ID until she asks to withdraw five million dollars.
When asked for ID Ana doesn’t volunteer any and asks to speak with the manager, after which she is asked again for ID. When she refuses a second time she is asked to leave and then when she refuses to leave she is escorted to the door by security. At which point the gun falls out of her jeans, there’s a major security alert and her silly ass is hauled off by the police.
I’m joking, of course. That would never happen.
The manager comes in. His name is Troy Whelan. Got that? Yes. Good. He needs a full name because he’s going to be in the book for about five whole pages.
Then he says this.
“We normally ask for some notice for large amounts of money.” He pauses and flashes me a reassuring but supercilious smile. “Fortunately, however, we hold the cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest.”
Several things here. Banks do not carry millions in their vaults. Doesn’t happen. Why? Because if they did they’d be absolute honeypots for anyone planning a bank heist. I know E.L. is trying to get around this by claiming ‘cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest’, but that’s bullshit. Especially since Troy here is telling Ana, a scruffily dressed young woman who claims to be Mrs. Christian Grey (and he still has no ID on her at this point) that his bank is full of money.
If this bank were real it would be remarkable, not as the one that holds the cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest, but as the one that gets robbed all the fucking time.
Finally he asks for ID and Ana hands over her driving license, which still has her maiden name on it. God knows why – I thought official stuff like this is essential, should you take your spouse’s name when you marry.
Ana digs out her black Amex. Which is the most exclusive of all exclusive credit cards ever. This has her married name on it and Troy Whelan says it will do.
So she writes a cheque for five million dollars and is then appalled to discover that Whelan has called her husband. Look, Ana, I know this book is taking place in Stupidland, but do you seriously expect a guy to take your word and a could-be-forged fancy credit card as proof that you are Mrs. Christian Grey?
She gets on the phone with Christian and he’s heartbroken and thinks she’s leaving him.
Good. Maybe he’ll kill himself.
Oh no – how can he think that? The money? He thinks I’m going because of the money? And in a moment of horrific clarity, I realise the only way I’m going to keep Christian at arm’s length, out of harm’s way, and to save his sister...is to lie.
“Yes,” I whisper. And searing pain lances through me, tears springing to my eyes.
He gasps, almost a sob. “Ana, I...” He chokes.
Oh dear, Christian. Do you remember all those ‘nightmares’ you had? About how desolate and broken you said you’d be if she didn’t come running every time you started twitching and turned on the mommy issues? And do you remember how you said your life would not actually be worth living if she left you?
Just a friendly reminder. How do you want to play this? Gas? Shotgun? Rope? Midnight swim with your collection of pet rocks? And holding your breath until you turn blue doesn’t count, sorry to say. Unless you want to go the bizarre wanking accident route. That would have a strange, twisted poetry to it. After all, you’ve got all those clamps and ball-gags and gimp-masks – seems a shame not to use them to go out with a darkly hilarious bang.
He gives her the money, tells her he’ll always love her and hopefully wanders off to put an end to his horrid self.
Ana waits in the bank while they count out five million in cash – because that would totally happen - (Only in Stupidland) and is left alone with the strange contents of her weird little head.
I will fix things with Christian somehow...if it’s not too late. At least he’s out of the picture. Right now I have to concentrate on Mia. Suppose Jack is lying? Suppose he doesn’t have her? Surely I should call the police?
Now the other shoe drops. Yes, dumbass. These are all things you should have thought in the first place. Now you’ve convinced your husband that you’re a heartless gold-digger and he’s probably right this moment trying to work out how to operate a shotgun trigger with his toes. (One hopes, anyway.)
I sit back in the chair, feeling the reassuring presence of Leila’s pistol at my waist, digging into my back.
Just a friendly reminder tha
t she is sitting in a bank with a gun tucked into her jeans. I admit it - I kind of love this chapter. It's stupid and ridiculous and nobody is threatening anyone with rape and pretending it's romantic. These are things that made me happy.
“Mrs. Grey.” It’s Whelan. “The money is ready.”
“Thank you.” I stand up and the room spins momentarily. I clutch the chair.
“Mrs. Grey, are you feeling okay?”
I nod and give him a back-off-now-mister stare. I take another deep, calming breath. I have to do this. I have to do this. I must save Mia. I pull the hem of my hooded sweatshirt down, concealing the butt of the pistol in the back of my jeans.
Oh for God’s sake. She’s not even concealing it well. Ana, you are useless. It’s a good thing everyone else in this book is nearly as stupid as you are or this plot would be dead in the water.
What the hell am I talking about? It’s already dead in the water. The only thing that remains is figuring out how smelly it’s going to get as it lies there all flyblown and rotting.
Sawyer has followed Ana to the bank. Ana freaks out, runs back into the bank and calls Jack on Mia’s phone. He says she’ll have to lose her security and that he has a car waiting at the back of the bank. A Dodge, funnily enough. But you’ve known that since the boring car chase in chapter five, right? Of course you have.
Ana has a plan, however. If it’s anything like her last one it’s bound to be quite special.
To avoid Sawyer she asks Whelan if she can use the rear exit of the bank. Four members of staff are going to accompany her in taking the bags to Jack’s van. I’m not sure what part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ she didn’t understand but it’s nice of her to bring along four witnesses who may very well get killed when Jack realised they’re there. She asks ‘one more favour of Whelan’, which cannot be good news for anyone.
Two minutes later my entourage and I are out on the street, heading over to the Dodge. Its windows are blacked out, and I can’t tell who’s at the wheel.
Jesus, she did do that. Well done, Ana. Tell nobody! Bring witnesses! Dumbass.
Thankfully for the four people who may very well be about to get killed, Jack and his lady accomplice are every bit as fucking stupid as everyone else in this chapter.
...as we approach, the driver’s door swings open, and a woman clad in black with a black cap pulled down low over her face climbs gracefully out of the car. Elizabeth from the office! What the hell.
Yes, Elizabeth was the female accomplice. The bank staff load the bags into the car. Nobody at this point is thinking “Hang on – that nervous lady withdrew a huge amount of money and now it’s being loaded into a car with blacked out windows by suspicious looking people all dressed in black.”
In fact Whelan shakes Ana’s hand and the bank staff all go back into the bank, like everything is fine.
For some fathomless reason Ana then gets into the car with Elizabeth, who drops her phone in a trashcan and drives her to drop the money off to Jack.
Jack smacks her about a bit and calls her a bitch and a whore and the usual bad guy business. Ana rolls around on the concrete thinking about her precious little unborn baby, although she’d do better to think about THE GUN THAT’S BEEN IN HER JEANS THE WHOLE DAMN TIME.
Yep. That’s right. Elizabeth went to the trouble of smashing Ana’s phone and dropping it in a trashcan, but didn’t bother to frisk her captive. The briefest of pat-downs would have revealed that Ana was packing, but everyone in this book is so dumb it’s not even funny any more.
Ana shoots Jack in the leg and then breaks out in a rash of ellipses.
...darkness closes in. Shit...She’s at the end of a tunnel. Darkness consuming her. Consuming me. From far away, all hell breaks lose. Cars screeching...brakes...doors...shouting...running...footsteps. The gun drops from my hand.
“Ana!” Christian’s voice...Christian’s voice...Christian’s agonised voice. Mia...save Mia.
“ANA!”
Darkness...peace.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the plot. Yep. It was pointless, it made no sense and it was astoundingly, eyewateringly stupid. And it all happened in one chapter. One chapter out of twenty-five. I am so tired. You have no idea.
Chapter Twenty-Three – Everyone Loves Ana
The next chapter begins with Ana waking up in hospital. She’s woozy and semi-conscious, drifting in and out. In the face of the author’s prior handling of section breaks and states of consciousness, you might well ask ‘Does this mean there’s going to be a section break every time she zonks out and wakes up again?’
Well, yes. Yes, it does.
There is only pain. My head, my chest...burning pain. My side, my arm. Pain. Pain and hushed words in the gloom.
So quite a lot of pain then? Any more Ana, or shall we just leave you alone to write teenage goth poetry?
“Her ribs are bruised, Mr. Grey, and she has a hairline fracture to her skull, but her vital signs are stable and strong.”
“Why is she still unconscious?”
“Mrs. Grey has had a major contusion to her head. But her brain activity is normal...”
Ah, that’s nice. Thank you, book. That’s the first time I’ve had a really good belly laugh in I don’t know how many pages.
“She’ll wake when she’s ready. Just give her some time.”
“And the baby?” The words are anguished, breathless.
“The baby’s fine, Mr. Grey.”
“Oh, thank God.” The words are a litany...a prayer. “Oh, thank God.”
Oh my. He’s worried about the baby...the baby?
Yes, Ana. The baby. Good lord, are you sure this is normal brain function, doc? She seems awfully fucking stupid.
Everything is heavy and aching limbs, head, eyelids, nothing will move. My eyes and mouth are resolutely shut, unwilling to open, leaving me blind and mute and aching. As I surface from the fog, consciousness hovers, a seductive siren just out of reach. Sounds become voices.
“I’m not leaving her.”
Oh no. I think I remember this bit when it used to be in Breaking Dawn. Is she seriously going to lie there like a sad sack of shit, drifting in and out of section breaks while everyone else talks about how she’s the best person to ever get turned into a crap vampire smacked on the head?
“Christian, you should sleep.”
“No, Dad. I want to be here when she wakes up.”
“I’ll sit with her. It’s the least I can do after she saved my daughter.”
Yep. They are. They really are.
You’ll be pleased to know Mia is none the worse for wear. Full of Rohypnol, scared and angry, but hey – she’s probably just post-traumatic. Let’s get back to what’s really important here - talking about Ana and how great she is.
“Ana’s a remarkable young woman. She was incredibly brave.”
“Brave and headstrong and stubborn and stupid.” His voice cracks.
“Hey,” Carrick murmurs, “don’t be so hard on her, or yourself.”
Then she zones out and wakes up again to hear her father telling her husband to spank her when she wakes up, which is all kinds of messed up. Maybe she’s having some kind of twisted dream.
Section break time again and this time it’s the police.
“Detective, as you can see my wife is in no state to answer any of your questions.”
“She’s been lying there like a blow-up doll for the past three days. It’s not actually a coma – she’s just really fucking bored or something. We’ve been stacking objects on top of her like a game of Buckaroo but she’s just not into it.”
This is not right – I should not be laughing this hard at a main character conked out in a hospital bed. I don’t know why it’s so funny to me. She’s just lying there all ‘ohhhh’ and angsty and they’re all wandering and in out saying ‘Ana, Ana, you’re the greatest person who ever lived, Ana. You’re so awesome’. It’s the most hilariously melodramatic piece of wish-fulfilment that wasn’t written by a fou
rteen year old on fanfiction.net.
“I thought about it, and she’s shown me over and over how much she loves me...to the point of putting her own life in danger.”
“Yes, she has, darling.”
“Oh, Mom, why won’t she wake up?” His voice cracks.
I dunno. If she’s going to just lie there bathed in praise you should try a little negative reinforcement. Talk some shit. Say she smells. And that she’s dumb. And have you noticed the way keeps staring at her fingers? What the hell is up with that?
Then she needs to pee, so she wakes up. She has a catheter, but she needs to pee. That’s not actually how catheters work, but princess is grossed out so we’ll just yank out so she can raise her fragile flowered skirts (probably to the sound of heavenly choirs) and pee like a lady.
Christian is incredibly rude to the nurse, because Christian is sadly not dead and still a total bag of dicks. Ana is feeling stiff and hungry as one might well feel after lying around for several days like a lost sock. (I’m sorry, I can’t stop fucking laughing – it’s just so incredibly funny to me that there was no valid medical reason for her just lolling there.)