“Great. Go ahead.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey.”
I hang up, and I’m tempted to call my mother to check Dr. Greene’s credentials, as they work in the same hospital; but that might provoke too many questions from Grace.
Once in the car I send Ana an e-mail with details about Sunday.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sunday
Date: May 27 2011 13:40
To: Anastasia Steele
Shall I see you at 1 p.m. Sunday?
The doctor will be at Escala to see you at 1:30.
I’m leaving for Seattle now.
I hope your move goes well, and I look forward to Sunday.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Right. All done. I ease the R8 onto the road and roar toward I-5. As I pass the exit for Vancouver I’m inspired. I call Andrea on the hands-free and ask her to organize a housewarming present for Ana and Kate.
“What would you like to send?”
“Bollinger La Grande Année Rosé, 1999 vintage.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“What do you mean, anything else?”
“Flowers? Chocolates? A balloon?”
“Balloon?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of balloons?”
“Well…they have everything.”
“Okay. Good idea—see if you can get a helicopter balloon.”
“Yes, sir. And a message for the card?”
“ ‘Ladies, good luck in your new home. Christian Grey.’ Got that?”
“I have. What’s the address?”
Shit. I don’t know. “I’ll text it to you either later today or tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Yes, sir. I can get it delivered tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Andrea.”
“You’re welcome.” She sounds surprised.
I hang up and floor my R8.
BY 6:30 I’M HOME and my earlier ebullient mood has soured—I still haven’t heard from Ana. I select a pair of cuff links from the drawers in my closet and as I knot my bow tie for the night’s event I wonder if she’s okay. She said she would contact me when she got home; I’ve called her twice, but I’ve heard nothing, and it’s pissing me off. I try her once more and this time I leave a message.
“I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I’m not a patient man. If you say you are going to contact me when you finish work, then you should have the decency to do so. Otherwise I worry, and it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, and I don’t tolerate it very well. Call me.”
If she doesn’t call soon I am going to explode.
I’M SEATED AT A table with Whelan, my banker. I’m his guest at a charity function for a nonprofit that aims to raise awareness of global poverty.
“Glad you could make it,” Whelan says.
“It’s a good cause.”
“And thank you for your generous contribution, Mr. Grey.” His wife is cloying, thrusting her perfect, surgically enhanced breasts in my direction.
“Like I said, it’s a good cause.” I give her a patronizing smile.
Why hasn’t Ana called me back?
I check my phone again.
Nothing.
I look around the table at all the middle-aged men with their second or third trophy wives. God forbid this should ever be me.
I’m bored. Seriously bored and seriously pissed.
What is she doing?
Could I have brought her here? I suspect she would have been bored stiff, too. When the conversation around the table moves to the state of the economy, I’ve had enough. Making my excuses, I leave the ballroom and exit the hotel. While the valet is retrieving my car, I call Ana again.
There’s still no answer.
Perhaps now that I’m gone she wants nothing to do with me.
When I get home, I head straight to my study and switch on the iMac.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Where Are You?
Date: May 27 2011 22:14
To: Anastasia Steele
“I am at work. I will e-mail you when I get home.”
Are you still at work or have you packed your phone, BlackBerry, and MacBook?
Call me, or I may be forced to call Elliot.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I stare out of my window toward the dark waters of the Sound. Why did I volunteer to collect Mia? I could be with Ana, helping her pack all her shit, then going out for pizza with her and Kate and Elliot—or whatever ordinary people do.
For God’s sake, Grey.
That’s not you. Get a grip.
I wander around my apartment, my footsteps echoing through the living room, and it seems achingly empty since I was last here. I undo my bow tie. Perhaps it’s me that’s empty. I pour myself an Armagnac and stare back out at the Seattle skyline toward the Sound.
Are you thinking about me, Anastasia Steele? The winking lights of Seattle have no answer.
My phone buzzes.
Thank. Fuck. Finally. It’s her.
“Hi.” I’m relieved that she’s called.
“Hi,” she says.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’m fine.”
Fine? I wish I was…
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” I ask, reining in my temper.
“Yes. We finished packing, and Kate and I had Chinese takeout with José.”
Oh, this just gets better and better. The fucking photographer again. That’s why she hasn’t called.
“How about you?” she inquires when I don’t respond, and there’s a hint of desperation in her voice.