Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody

pressed white dress shirt, and a black tie with smiley faces on it. With his tousled brown hair and brilliant gray eyes, he’s the kind of guy you want to write fanfic about.
“Well, um,” I say, accepting his hand and stepping off the desk. I blink my eyes rapidly as we touch; either his touch is electric, or I just had a seizure. When I’m back on my feet on the floor I excuse myself to pick up my notebook and backpack, and then return to sit down across from him.
“Miss Kraven had an emergency come up at the last minute. She sent me instead.”
“And your name is . . .?”
“Anna Steal. Miss Kraven and I are roommates.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” he says.
I pull the mini–disc recorder out of my pocket and set it up. Mr. Grey watches me with an amused look on his face. He’s probably wondering why I’m using technology that was obsolete the day it rolled off the production line. I have the same question. The only thing I know is that Kathleen is obsessed with vintage stuff. I mean, her favorite band is Nirvana.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m trying to figure out how to turn this thing on . . .”
“It’s okay. I like to watch,” he says with a malicious smile.
“Can I record our conversation? It’s for Kathleen.”
“I don’t mind if you tape us,” he says. The way he says “us” sends shivers up my spine. Is he hitting on me? I’m not used to this kind of attention from a man. I’ve never been the “hot girl”; my body is unremarkable in just about every way, from my too-narrow hips to my B-cups.
“Kathleen told you what this interview was about, right?” I say.
“I’ve never spoken with her, but my assistant has informed me it’s for some sort of business magazine.”
“Um, yeah,” I say, finally figuring out how to turn on the mini–disc recorder. If he doesn’t know what kind of magazine it is, I’m not going to be the one to explain it to him. “So, she gave me a list of questions to ask you.”
He stares at me unwaveringly with his gray eyes. “And . . .?”
No small talk, apparently. I read the first question word for word out of the notebook. “You’re young and have achieved a lot in your business career, more than most people will achieve in their lifetimes. What’s the secret of your success?”
He smiles. “The most important part of my business is the people I employ and the people my company does business with. I spend a lot of time getting to know people and judging them. I inspire them, incentivize them, and reward them. I employ over a billion people in my vast empire, and I interviewed every one of them myself. They’re all outstanding human beings. So, in short, my success has everything to do with the people I surround myself with.”
“Couldn’t it be luck?” This isn’t something Kathleen wrote down, but I have to go off script—he seems so arrogant and sure of himself. I want to throw him off guard. This is going to be the best damn puff piece that has ever run in Boardroom Hotties.
“Luck is for gamblers, Miss Steal. I don’t gamble.”
“Never? You’ve never, say, played the lottery?”
“Never,” he says. “I don’t take chances.”
“Not even, like, a one dollar scratch-off ticket?”
“Never. I just can’t take that kind of chance. If the ticket’s not a winner, I’m left with a little scrap of paper with silver dust all over my quarter. And sometimes that silvery stuff gets on your fingers and it’s a bitch to clean off.”
“So you have bought scratch-off lottery tickets!”
He sighs. “Off the record? My mother was a gambling addict, Miss Steal. She gave me used scratch-off lottery tickets instead of toys to play with as a child. So I don’t take chances.”
“Not even for a dollar,” I mutter.
“Not even for a dollar,” he says, boring through my skull with his gray eyes.
I feel my heartbeat quickening. Everything he says makes me want to make sandwiches with him, even the part about playing with lottery tickets as a kid. Is it because he’s so good looking? Is it because of his incredibly long fingers? Or his tousled hair? Or his incredibly long fingers?
“Do you ever rest?” I ask. “How do you unwind?”
“I have hobbies,” he says, smirking. “Physical pursuits: base jumping, hang gliding, underwater basket weaving. I also enjoy intellectual activities, like board games.”
“Monopoly, I presume,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “But I also take pleasure in a good game of Trivial . . . Pursuit.”
Gulp.
He’s so attractive and long fingered that I find it hard to concentrate on asking the questions Kathleen has written down for me. I force myself to look at the page and read another one. “The Earl Grey Corporation has quite the diversified portfolio of businesses, from manufacturing to natural resources to Internet startups. Why not focus exclusively on the technology sector, like every other billionaire your age?”
He sighs. “I’m not like other people. I don’t do what everyone else does,” he says, “in business or in the bed-room.”
Most people sleep or watch TV or read books in bedrooms. What could he be talking about?
“Do you have a philosophy of business?” I ask.
“No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.”
Wow. Was this hot guy a philosophy major in college? He’s nothing like the burnouts I know who sit around contemplating their navels and smoking grass. My skin feels flushed. I’ve never been in the presence of such a smart, attractive man before, except for the time President Obama gave a speech at our school and recited the name of every state (including capitals) in alphabetical order, entirely from memory.
“Your name is quite distinctive. Are you an English earl, by any chance?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “If I was, do you think I would have