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The exposed brick walls, lit seductively by spindly chandeliers (because sex and BDSM and stuff), are crammed to the tin ceiling with bodies. The event photographer hovers around a group of three gleeful, 20-something blonde women, chatting them up and taking more shots of them than seems necessary at an overflowing party like this. I marvel, vaguely, at someone's failure (or very sneaky, subliminal success) to discourage James from including "Pachelbel's Canon in D" on this album.
Can't decide if I feel really bad for the quartet, or if this is the easiest money they've made in months. And then, an E! News reporter wearing a candy-teal cocktail dress kindly announces to the schmoozing crowd that it's time for everyone to shut up, please, because the cameras are about to roll and the Q&A is about to start. Attendees cluster feverishly around the crescent of upholstered couches framing the two spotlighted high chairs, one of which is occupied by the reporter, into the other of which a flustered-looking E.L. James is now being shepherded. I suddenly am wedged squarely behind the Label Suits, who, unsurprisingly, are very tall. My recorder out, I attempt to circumvent them, moving to an open spot to their left, but immediately, one of the Industry Mom types taps me on the elbow from her comfortable perch in an armchair behind me and bats at the air between us and, sneering, shoos me back behind the suits again. At the same time, another Industry Mom is maneuvering through the covey of entertainment reporters at my right and unceremoniously cuts through the suits brigade, elbowing one out of the way and insisting in a loud whisper, "I can't seeeeee her." The suit makes an indignant retort, but the Mom has firmly staked out her territory, and the interview in front of us has already begun.

