Fifty Shades of Grey (60 page)

I struggle out of bed and fire the mean machine up again. I am on a mission. I drum my fingers impatiently waiting for the blue screen to appear. I hit Google images and enter ‘Christian Grey’ into the search engine. The screen is suddenly littered with images of Christian: in black tie, be-suited, jeez – José’s pictures from the Heathman, in his white shirt and flannel trousers. How did they get on the Internet? Boy he looks good.

I move quickly on: some with business associates, then picture after glorious picture of the most photogenic man I know, intimately.
Intimately? Do I know Christian intimately?
I know him sexually, and I figure there’s a lot more to discover there. I know he’s moody, difficult, funny, cold, warm… jeez, the man is a walking mass of contradictions. I click to the next page. He’s still on his own in all these photographs, and I remember Kate mentioning that she couldn’t find any photographs of him with a date, prompting her gay question. Then, on the third page, there’s a picture of me, with him, at my graduation. His only picture with a woman, and it’s me.

Holy cow! I’m on Google!
I stare at us together. I look surprised by the camera, nervous, off balance. This was just before I agreed to try. For his part, Christian looks impossibly handsome, calm and collected, and he’s wearing
that tie.
I gaze at him, such a

beautiful face, a beautiful face that could be staring at Mrs. Damned Robinson right now. I save the picture in my favorites and click through all eighteen screens… nothing. I won’t find Mrs. Robinson on Google. But I have to know if he’s with her. I type a quick email to Christian.

From:
Anastasia Steele

Subject:
Suitable Dinner Companions

Date:
May 31 2011 23:58 EST

To:
Christian Grey

I hope you and your friend had a very pleasant dinner.

Ana

PS Was it Mrs. Robinson?

I press send and climb despondently back into bed, resolving to ask Christian about his relationship with that woman. Part of me is desperate to know more, and another part wants to forget he ever told me. And my period has started, so I must remember to take my pill in the morning. I quickly program an alarm into the calendar on my BlackBerry. Setting it aside on the bedside table, I lie down and eventually drift into an uneasy sleep, wishing that we were in the same city, not two and half thousand miles apart.

After a morning of shopping and an afternoon back at the beach, my mother has decreed we should spend the evening in a bar. Abandoning Bob to the TV, we find ourselves in the up-market bar of Savannah’s most exclusive hotel. I am on my second Cosmopolitan. My mother is on her third. She is offering more insights into the fragile male ego. It’s very disconcerting.

“You see, Ana, men think that anything that comes out of a woman’s mouth is a problem to be solved. Not some vague idea that we’d like to kick around and talk about for a while and then forget. Men prefer action.”

“Mom, why are telling me this?” I ask, failing to hide my exasperation. She’s been like this all day.

“Darling, you sound so lost. You’ve never brought a boy home. You never even had a boyfriend when we were in Vegas. I thought something might develop with that guy you met in college, José.”

“Mom, José’s just a friend.”

“I know, sweetheart. But something’s up, and I don’t think you’re telling me everything.” She gazes at me, her face etched with motherly concern.

“I just needed some distance from Christian to get my thoughts straight… that’s all.

He tends to overwhelm me.”

“Overwhelm?”

“Yeah. I miss him though.” I frown.

I have not heard from Christian all day. No emails, nothing. I am tempted to call him to see if he’s okay. My worst fear is that he’s been in a car accident, my second worst fear is that Mrs. Robinson has got her evil claws into him again. I know it’s irrational, but where

she’s
concerned, I seem to have lost all sense of perspective.

“Darling, I have to visit the powder room.”

My mother’s brief absence allows me another chance to check my BlackBerry. I have been trying surreptitiously to check emails all day. Finally – a response from Christian!

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Dinner Companions

Date:
June 1 2011 21:40 EST

To:
Anastasia Steele

Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.

Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

He
was
having dinner with her. My scalp prickles as adrenaline and fury lance through my body, all my worst fears realized, crashing through me.
How could he?
I am away for two days, and he runs off to that evil bitch.

From:
Anastasia Steele

Subject:
OLD Dinner Companions

Date:
June 1 2011 21:42 EST

To:
Christian Grey

She’s not just an old friend.

Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?

Did you get too old for her?

Is that the reason your relationship finished?

I press send as my mother returns.

“Ana, you’re so pale. What’s happened?”

I shake my head.

“Nothing. Let’s have another drink,” I mutter mulishly.

Her brow furrows, but she glances up and attracts the attention of one of the waiters, pointing to our glasses. He nods. He understands the universal language of ‘same again, please.’ As she does, I quickly glance at my BlackBerry.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Careful…

Date:
June 1 2011 21:45 EST

To:
Anastasia Steele

This is not something I wish to discuss via email.

How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Holy fuck, he’s here.

I glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him.

“Ana, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s Christian, he’s here.”

“What? Really?” She glances around the bar too.

I have neglected to mention Christian’s stalker tendencies to my mom.

I see him. My heart leaps, beginning a juddering thumping beat as he makes his way toward us.
He’s really here – for me.
My inner goddess leaps up cheering from her chaise longue. Moving smoothly through the crowd, his hair glints burnished copper and red under the recessed halogens. His bright gray eyes are shining with – anger? Tension? His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tense.
Oh holy shit… no.
I am so mad at him right now, and here he is. How can I be angry with him in front of my mother?

He arrives at our table, gazing at me warily. He’s dressed in customary white linen shirt and jeans.

“Hi,” I squeak, unable to hide my shock and awe at seeing him here in the flesh.

“Hi,” he replies, and leaning down, he kisses my cheek, taking me by surprise.

“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” My ingrained manners take over.

He turns to greet my mom.

“Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.”

How does he know her name?
He gives her the heart-stopping, Christian Grey patented, full-blown-no-prisoners-taken smile. She doesn’t have a hope. My mother’s lower jaw practically hits the table.
Jeez, get a grip Mom.
She takes his proffered hand and they shake. My mother hasn’t replied. Oh, complete dumbfounded speechlessness is genetic

– I had no idea.

“Christian,” she manages finally, breathlessly.

He smiles knowingly at her, his gray eyes twinkling. I narrow my eyes at them both.

“What are you doing here?” My question sounds more brittle than I mean, and his smile disappears, his expression now guarded. I am thrilled to see him, but completely thrown off balance, my anger about Mrs. Robinson simmering through my veins. I don’t know if I want to shout at him or throw myself into his arms – but I don’t think he’d like either – and I want to know how long he has been watching us. I’m also a little anxious about the email I just sent him.