Previously, the plot came pretty much to a total standstill as Maxim and Alessia’s romance picked up. Just think, right now, there’s the world’s most inept sex traffickers trying to figure out their next move to get one (1) of their victims back from an aristocrat, Caroline’s probably sitting around trying to figure out what sad, thirsty text she can send to Maxim next, and Maxim’s mom is also a character.
But no, we’re stuck with these horny idiots. Here’s a chapter where they go shopping for new clothes.
The Mister: Chapter 16
Our two lovebirds have fucked at last, and life is good.
The sun is shining. The air is crisp and cold. “No Diggity” blares over the sound system as I drive up the A39 toward Padstow.
In another world, I could’ve come across this passage as a short story prompt in a creative writing workshop, or perhaps on one of those podcasts where people read their teenage diaries as a stand-up set.
She flashes me a quick crotch-tightening grin.
Ah, to be young and in love, when the world is all sunshine and crotch-tightening grins.
After Maxim gets an early start on this chapter’s quota of obligatory reminders that Kit died (“I’m happier than I’ve been…since…since Kit died. No. Since before Kit’s death.”) and a brief check-in on his feelings (“new and raw and a little unsettling”, which is fair enough), he fills us in on the day’s itinerary.
I’m going shopping with a woman, and I’m looking forward to it—is this a first?
That’s right, you guys! It’s the Pretty Woman chapter! Or, rather, the E.L. James take on it, where the bajillionaire man wants to buy new, nice clothes for his ladyfriend because he’s in looooooove, but the woman does not want him to buy her new, nice clothes, for reasons that the man finds utterly inscrutable, but Maxim has a guess that “she’s proud” or “maybe it’s an Albanian characteristic”. Godspeed, you horny idiot.
“Maxim, I cannot pay for new clothes.”
“It’s my treat.”
“Treat?” She frowns.
“Alessia, you have nothing. This is very easy for me to put right. Please. Let me. I want to.”
“It is not right.”
“Says who?”
She taps her finger to her lips, and it appears that this is not an argument she’s considered. “Me. I say,” she answers eventually.
I sigh. “They are a gift for all your hard work—”
“They are a gift because I have sexual intercourse with you.”
“What? No!” I laugh, appalled and amused in equal measure.
Now, granted, I’m reading this from a cis male perspective, but I can’t help but react to this scene about how men should just be able to buy women some nice clothes with a mildly exasperated, “it is twenty nineteen“. And the fact that James’s dialogue is so wooden that it still frequently veers into “poorly translated video game” territory doesn’t help how boring this is:
A young sales assistant approaches us. Blond and breezy, with a bright, girl-next-door smile and a bouncing ponytail to match, she asks, “Can I help you, sir?”
“My…um, girlfriend needs everything. She’s left all her stuff in London, and we’re here for a week.” […]
“Sure. What do you need?” the assistant asks with a cheery glance at Alessia.
Alessia shrugs.
“Let’s start with jeans,” I interject.
“What size?”
“I do not know,” Alessia replies.
“I think you’re a small, either a UK size eight or ten.” She gives us an expectant look, waiting for confirmation.
Alessia nods, though I think it’s because she doesn’t want to be rude.
“Why don’t you go into the changing room, and I’ll find some jeans in those sizes, and we’ll go from there?”
“Okay,” Alessia mumbles, and with an inscrutable look at me, she follows the assistant to the changing rooms.
I hear the assistant inform Alessia, “My name’s Sarah, by the way.”
I just don’t fucking care. Maxim has a point that she needs new clothes and that he can easily afford it. Alessia’s discomfort with accepting such generosity is also valid. Figure out a compromise like adults. Granted, it’s not exactly the same thing as it was in Fifty Shades since Ana wasn’t destitute…
Mister Maxim is right. She needs clothes. Why is she being so obstinate about his generous offer? It’s because he’s done so much for her already. […] What is she going to do when they go back to London and the holiday comes to an end?
… but it sure feels like the same argument all over again, and it still doesn’t really seem to have a point. It still isn’t saying anything about the power dynamics in this argument, but that this sure is an argument that can be had!
“That’s one thousand three hundred and fifty-five pounds, please.” Sarah beams at Maxim.
“What!” Alessia squeaks.
Maxim hands over his credit card, pulls Alessia into his arms, and kisses her long and hard. She is breathless when he releases her, and she stares down at the floor, mortified.
And if it does have anything to say, it’s less about gender or power dynamics and more so just a pretty rote pro-materialism one.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
“You are most welcome,” I reply, relieved. “Now we’re going to get you some decent shoes.”
Alessia’s face lights up like a summer’s day.
Ah. Shoes…the way to every woman’s heart.
Ok, perhaps it is still a little about gender.
Alessia does get to give a surprisingly thoughtful explanation of her feelings on the matter…
“I cannot pretend I am on holiday,” she says softly. “You buy me all these things, and I can never pay you the money. And I don’t know what will happen to me when we go back to London. And I am thinking about my father and what he would do to me”—she pauses and swallows—“and to you, if he knew what we had done. I know what he would call me. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being afraid.” Her voice is a raw whisper, and tears shine in her eyes. She looks directly at me. “That is what I am thinking.”
I stare back. Paralyzed, but empty and aching. For her.
“That’s a lot to think about,” I murmur. […]
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Fine. Thanks,” I say, dismissing her. […]
Her voice barely audible, she says, “I am not your problem, Maxim.” […]
Her response angers me. I don’t want her gratitude. I think she’s got some old-fashioned notion about being my mistress. And what her father has to do with us, I don’t know. It’s 2019. Not 1819.
See, you’d think that would invalidate everything I’ve written in this post, but this story isn’t really interested in exploring power dynamics or gender roles:
What the hell does she want?
Fuck. What do I want? […]
I’ve had her beautiful body.
And it’s not enough.
It hits me. Like a sledgehammer. Right between the eyes.
I want her heart.
It’s just a way for Maxim to realize his feelings! Again. I could have sworn he already realized he wanted her beyond a hookup, although I guess it’s hardly the first thing in this chapter I felt like I’ve read already.
If you enjoyed today’s post, please consider becoming a Patron to support the blog, or buying the BBGT writers a cup of coffee on Ko-fi. It means a lot to us!
For a quick housekeeping note, Ariel and I have been discussing some overdue changes to our Patreon that we’ve begun working on, which we’re really excited about, and think you will be too!
“The sun is shining. The air is crisp and cold. ‘No Diggity’ blares over the sound system as I drive up the A39 toward Padstow.”
I spewed out my Pepsi and burst out laughing, and I’m at work. I can just imagine EL James writing those lines and then smiling in satisfaction, congratulating herself on keeping her story young and hip. As someone just 6 years younger than James, I would like to apologize on her behalf to all the young people. Please don’t read her Twitter feed. It’s even worse.