“A cake?”
She nods.
“A chocolate cake?”
“You want a chocolate cake?”
I grin.
“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”
I kiss her once more. I don’t deserve her. I hope, one day, I’ll prove that I do.
ANA WAS RIGHT, the photographs are in my closet. I will have to ask Dr. Flynn to find out if Leila moved them. When I walk back into the living room, Ana’s not there. I suspect she’s calling her mother.
There’s a certain irony in sitting at my desk and shredding these photographs: relics of my old life. The first photograph is of Susannah, bound and gagged, on her knees on the wooden floor. It’s not a bad photograph, and briefly I wonder what José would make of this subject matter. The thought amuses me, but I put the first few photographs through the shredder. I turn the rest of the pile over so I can’t see the images and within twelve minutes they’re all gone.
You still have the negatives.
Grey. Stop.
I’m relieved to find that nothing else is missing from the safe. I turn to my computer and make a start on my e-mails. My first task is to rewrite Sam’s pretentious statement about my crash landing. I edit it—it lacks clarity and detail—and I send it back to him.
Then I scroll through my text messages.
ELENA
Christian. Please call me.
I need to hear it from your lips that you’re okay.
Elena’s text must have come through while I was having lunch. The rest are from late last night and yesterday.
ROS
My feet are sore.
But all good.
Hope you are good, too.
SAM PUBLICITY VP
I really need to talk to you.
SAM PUBLICITY VP
Mr. Grey. Call me. Urgently.
SAM PUBLICITY VP
Mr. Grey. Glad you are okay.
Please call me asap.
ELENA
Thank God you’re okay.
I just saw the news.
Please call me.
ELLIOT
Pick up the phone. Bro.
We’re worried. Here.
GRACE
Where are you?
Call me. I’m worried.
So is your father.
MIA
CHRISTIAN. WTF.
CALL US.
ANA
We’re at the Bunker Club.
Please join us.
You’ve been mighty quiet Mr. Grey.
Miss you.
ELENA
Are you ignoring me?
Fuck. Just leave me alone, Elena.
TAYLOR
Sir, false alarm with my daughter.
On my way back to Seattle.
Should be there 3 p.m.
I delete them all. I know I’m going to have to deal with Elena at some point, but I don’t feel like it now. I open a spreadsheet from Fred with the cost projections for the Kavanagh contract.
The smell of baking drifts into my study. The aroma is mouth-watering and evokes one of the few happy memories I have of my early childhood. It’s a bittersweet feeling. The crack whore. Baking.
A movement distracts me from my thoughts and the spreadsheet I’m reading. It’s Ana, standing in my study doorway. “I’m just heading to the store to pick up some ingredients,” she says.
“Okay.” Not dressed like that, surely?
“What?”
“You going to put some jeans on or something?”
“Christian, they’re just legs,” she says dismissively, and I grit my teeth. “What if we were at the beach?” she says.
“We’re not at the beach.”
“Would you object if we were at the beach?”
We’d be on a private beach. “No,” I respond.
She gives me a wicked smile. “Well, just imagine we are. Laters.” She turns and bolts.
What? She’s running?
And before I know it, I’m out of my seat and going after her. I see a flash of turquoise exit through the main entrance at speed and I pursue her into the foyer, but she’s in the elevator and the doors are closing when I catch up with her. She gives me a wave from inside and then she’s gone. Her haste is such an overreaction, I want to laugh.
What did she think I’d do?
Shaking my head, I walk back to the kitchen. The last time we played tag, she left me. The thought is sobering. I stand at the fridge and pour myself some water and I spy my cake cooling on a wire rack. I bend to sniff it and my mouth waters. I close my eyes and a memory of the crack whore resurfaces.
Mommy is home. Mommy is here.
She’s wearing her biggest shoes and a short, short skirt. It’s red. And shiny.
Mommy has purple marks on her legs. Near her butt.
She smells good. Like candy.
“Come in, big guy, make yourself comfortable.”
She’s with a man. A big man with a big beard. I don’t know him.
“Not now, Maggot. Mommy has company. Go play in your room with your cars. I’ll bake you a cake when I’m done.”
She closes her bedroom door.
I hear a ping of the elevator and I turn around expecting Ana to walk back in, but it’s Taylor with two men, one holding a briefcase, the other as broad as he is tall, carrying himself like hired muscle.
“Mr. Grey.” Taylor introduces the younger, smarter man, who’s carrying the briefcase. “This is Louis Astoria, from Astoria Fine Jewelry.”
“Ah. Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Grey.” He’s animated. His ebony eyes are warm and friendly. “I have some fine pieces to show you.”