The elevator whisks me at terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators and past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. She hands me a security pass that has “visitor” very firmly stamped on the front. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots, and a blue sweater. I’m beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Kate’s formal blazers rather than worn my navy-blue jacket. “Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele.” She arches her eyebrow as I stand self-consciously before her. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh.”
She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous-and frankly intimidating-glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.īehind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. It’s a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with GREY HOUSE written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I hit the pedal to the metal. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Fortunately, Kate has lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, Washington, toward Interstate 5. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful-and she’s my dearest, dearest friend. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. Gathering my backpack, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. And thanks, Ana-as usual, you’re my lifesaver.” I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at her fondly. “I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blond hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red rimmed and runny. Please,” Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. It took me nine months to get this interview. Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily precious-much more precious than mine-but he has granted Kate an interview. I have final exams to cram for and one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no-today I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi-presentable.
I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. Damn my hair-it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.
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