SIP is a nice place. It's got a lobby with two receptionists and security by their desk and by all three of the elevators. They don't just publish books. They're into a lot of internet things, magazines, advertisements. I sit, very very carefully, through the morning training for new hires. The paperwork is interspersed by men and women coming in to talk about their divisions.
Carter Laumber is with Acquisitions. "That means acquiring clients," he explains. It makes me laugh and he gives me a startled look. I flush when I realize no one else has gotten the joke, or maybe it wasn't funny. But after spending all weekend crying and screaming into pillows, it feels good to make a noise from a different part of my body. Laughing uses different muscles, right? But he gives me a small grin and goes on to explain one of the primary jobs a book publisher does is read submitted manuscripts to see if any of the submissions meet the standards of her publishing company. This includes working out contracts with prospective clients.
He is moved out and we do our tax forms. The in comes Allen Smith, who is in charge of Editing and Consulting. He explains how once a client has been obtained, they will edit the manuscript with an assigned editor who has to consult with the author and answer any questions that may arise about the publishing process.
After Mr. Smith we get a break. Apparently they take these schedules seriously. And our schedule says we take a break. I am going to have to create a new mindset, I think as I stand in line at the lobby coffee stand and order a green tea latte. Professional dress, professional demeanor, professional attitude and behavior. I casually look around at the several hundred people coming and going, note the clothes, heels and makeup for the women. Many of them carry attractive sidebags, just right for paper manuscripts. There's a way that the front desk girls – they're both around my age – say good morning or hello to some of the women that tells me immediately which ones are in charge or respected. I make sure to eye their outfits so I can copy them. Despite the money from Christian – does he think I'm a frigging imbecile that Taylor got that much money for poor Wanda? – I'm a Wal-Mart and Kmart girl. But you don't grow up lower middle class, some would say lower class, but fuck them, without knowing how to take pieces and put them together; especially when these business women are showing me exactly what I need to know.
We start off after the break with signing our lives away about confidentiality of anything we see, hear or even sense at SIP. I feel more and more suspicious that Seattle is made up of paranoid Doms and beaten Subs as we all submissively sign our lives away. Then it's Monique Janique with Designing.
Monique looks like a female Dom. She's incredibly tall and curvy with a ton of blonde hair sleeked back into a high ponytail. She's even wearing a bright red leather suit. Maybe I should sign on with her? My Inner Goddess is looking like a child playing dress up in the outfit that is five times too big for me. Never mind. Ms. Janique explains that book publishers also help authors design their book cover to make it stand out on the book shelf. They present a number of different book cover designs and different fonts from which the author chooses. This task includes presenting writers with illustration that may appear in the book. Hence, they employee artists, graphic designers, and a smorgasbord of others.
My ass is beginning to really hurt and it takes a lot of effort not to shift around. I really want to stand up and lean against the wall, but that wouldn't be professional. So I sit and suffer. As the HR woman begins to read every single word in our Policy and Procedures handbook – more like an encyclopedia – I think about Christian. How soft his hair is. How those grey eyes express his moods. How those moods change like a freaking weather pattern over this city. How had I fallen in love with him? Yes, he was beautiful. I didn't care about the money. And frankly the power of him as a businessman didn't make a lot of sense to me. So he was good at his job, so were lots of people. And the little I'd seen of him screaming and shouting hadn't made me feel too good about how that power sat on his shoulders. Was that how he treated all his employees? As a sub, he'd certainly felt free to be a bastard to me in every way.
But the truth is that my heart is broken. I had offered it up like a piece of taffy and Christian had let me know he didn't want sweets. Wow, that was a sad way to dramatize my saying "I love you" to him. And what was worse … even after I let him abuse me with a belt, I had to tell him. I would have forgiven all six hits if he'd even pretended to love me back. What kind of sick person was I? I'd always thought only women with a sixth grade education and no life goals stayed with men who beat them. Apparently I was a break away or wrong.
Lunch time everyone splits off and I wandered outside to find a nearby park and watch the water. It's sunny and warming up, so there's plenty of people. I ate my yogurt, take another pain killer as I lean against a tree that's gotten leaves and offers some shade. I don't feel like eating, but the painkillers have to be taken with food, so yogurt it is. See, Ana, you can follow basic instructions. It said on the bottle that I had to take the pills with food. So I'm taking the pills with food. So I guess that makes me submissive to my medicine. Great.
I've already dug out my old cell phone and texted Kate. She's doing good and says she's in love with Elliot Grey and is sure he is THE ONE. I resisted telling her I was not doing good, am in love with Christian Grey and that he is THE ONE who made me look up PTSD on her computer when, after paying the guy who'd come to the door last night with my prescription order had left, I had screaming hysterics. My Inner Goddess has resumed hiding under furniture and my conscience had begged for Jack Daniels. Luckily for both, I'd just taken a pill and used more pain killing cream on my swollen nether regions.
I was giving a casual look around when I saw Taylor coming my way. It was an immediate fight or flight situation. Given that I was in four inch heels and a tight pencil thin skirt, flight was an option only if I was going to be physically attacked. And Taylor had never scared me. Christian had scared me all the time. But Taylor, not once. So I waited as he inevitably strode up to me. He was a good looking guy, maybe in his forties. If I'd gone for older men – like Christian wasn't older? – I would have been interested. Back when I preferred men … I was seriously considering women at this point. Although I guess they could be Dom also … Monique.
"Miss Steele." He had a kind of humble look on his GI Joe face. Yeah? Well, where was my rescue when I was getting myself in trouble? Did he and Christian have cameras in the Red Room of Pain? Well, of course, Ana, I curse myself. They had them everywhere else, both at Escala and GEH, the parking garage. Hell, he'd probably sat there and watched Christian show me a lesson with a bag of popcorn on his lap, cheering him on.
"Hello, Taylor." No point in being nasty. I watched as he pulled out a long black jewelry box out of his jacket pocket. Eighty degrees and he's wearing heavy black wool. No sympathy from Ana for you. Not today when I just realized that you've helped maintain all fifteen, excuse me, sixteen of us subs for Mr. Grey.
"He, Mr. Grey, wants you to have this." He held it out.
Wow. Jewelry? I'd be excited if this had been Friday night, before … I grit my teeth, take it and open the hinged lid. I guess it's a bracelet. Maybe a necklace. The ends are under the blue velvet and into the base of the box, so I can't tell. It's some kind of blue stone. I'm not an expert on jewelry and stones. Probably expensive. It's set in silver, or at least gray. Grey. Cute. My Inner Goddess, the mercenary bitch, has her jewelers lope out and is sizing it up. I ignore her, close the lid. Taylor has his hands behind his back, unlike his boss he recognizes that I'm not the kind of girl, well now it's certifiable woman, who would accept even a pair of earrings from the Wal-Mart discount aisle, much less this.
So I calmly, with only shaking fingers like an earthquake, put it into his jacket pocket while he starts to shift away then apparently thinks better of it. Thank God, because the pain pill still hasn't taken effect and I don't think I can chase him on the soft grass in these heels anyway. "Tell Mr. Grey I don't do collars." See, my research into Christian's "lifestyle choice" was paying off. "And even if I did …" Come on, Ana, think of something witty and strong. Or just witty. Something not pathetic. Nothing coming. All those books I've read and I can't think of five or so words to finish this sentence. "No thanks." I crumble up my yogurt container and spoon, carefully walk across the park's smooth lawn toward a trash container.
Taylor's hand cups my elbow and I freaked. Couldn't help it. Instinctive. A reaction to being hurt both physically and emotionally. I jump back by about ten feet – what's the world record? – and feel the tears coming. I think I've bitten my tongue because I taste blood. Shit, shit, shit! Get ahold of yourself, Ana. This is probably just a parting gift, same as the other subs. Oh, great. Now the tears are really flowing. Time for a less than graceful retreat. I trip and go down, nothing new, and Taylor stands behind me not knowing what to do. If he touches me I might scream and then the cops will come running. There's two of them walking the paths making sure child molesters or those creepy guys who like to flash their equipment at women, aren't in the park. Where were they when Christian was selecting that damn belt and had his equipment all in an uproar of excitement? Huh?
Back at SIP I dive into the ladies room and put cool wet paper towels on my eyes, nose and throat. I make myself breath, those little panting sounds that women in labor do, and soon feel myself calming down. When I finally get my eyes open, one of the other women in the new hire group is staring at me. Bug under a microscope look. "Sorry," I manage to croak out, turning red.
She gives me a little smile. She's got brown hair, long like mine, but she's a little chunky. Lose ten pounds and Christian Grey can be yours, I think. Instead, I take another paper towel she offers and blow my nose. "Thanks."
She doesn't say anything, but puts one arm around my shoulders. We look at each other in the bathroom mirror. Either I have definitely turned to women in my sexual preference, or we're gonna be friends.