Kate answers the door and is nearly knocked off her feet by Elliot. He seizes her in a Hollywood-style clinch that moves quickly into a European art house embrace. Honestly...
get a room. Jose and I stare at each other. I'm appalled at their lack of modesty.
"Shall we walk down to the bar?" I ask Jose, who nods frantically. We are too uncomfortable with the unrestrained sexing unfolding in front of us. Kate looks up at me, flushed and bright-eyed.
"Jose and I are going for a quick drink." I roll my eyes at her. Ha! I can still roll my eyes in my own time.
"Okay," she grins.
"Hi Elliot, bye Elliot."
He winks a big blue eye at me, and Jose and I are out of the door, giggling like teenagers. As we stroll down to the bar, I put my arm through Jose's. God, he's so uncomplicated
- I hadn't really appreciated that before.
"You'll still come to the opening of my show, won't you?"
"Of course, Jose, when is it?"
"June 9."
"What day is that?" I suddenly panic.
"It's a Thursday."
"Yeah I should make that... and you will visit us in Seattle?"
"Try and stop me." He grins.
It's late when I arrive back from the bar. Kate and Elliot are nowhere to be seen but boy can they be heard. Holy shit. I hope I'm not that loud. I know Christian isn't. I flush at the thought and escape to my room. After a brief not-at-all-awkward-thank-goodness hug, Jose has gone. I don't know when I'll see him again, probably his photographic show, and once again, I'm blown away that he finally has an exhibition. I shall miss him and his boy-ish charm. I couldn't bring myself to tell him about the Beetle, I know he'll freak when he finds out, and I can only deal with one man at a time freaking out at me. Once in my room, I check the mean machine, and of course, there's an email from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Where Are You?
Date: May 27 2011 22:14
To: Anastasia Steele
'I am at work. I will email 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.
Crap... Jose... shit.
I grab my phone. Five missed calls and one voice message. Tentatively, I listen to the message. It's Christian.
'I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I am 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.'
Double crap. Will he ever give me a breakI scowl at the phone. He is suffocating me. With a deep dread uncurling in my stomach, I scroll down to his number and press dial. My heart is in my mouth as I wait for him to answer. He'd probably like to beat seven shades of shit out of me . The thought is depressing.
"Hi," he says softly, and his response knocks me off balance because I am expecting his anger, but if anything, he sounds relieved.
"Hi," I murmur.
"I was worried about you."
"I know. I'm sorry I didn't reply, but I'm fine."
He pauses for a beat.
"Did you have a pleasant evening?" He is crisply polite.
"Yes. We finished packing and Kate and I shared a Chinese take-out with Jose." I close my eyes tightly as I say Jose's name. Christian says nothing.
"How about you?" I ask to fill the sudden deafening chasm of silence. I will not let him guilt me out about Jose.
Eventually, he sighs.
"I went to a fundraising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could."
He sounds so sad and resigned. My heart clenches. I picture him all those nights ago sat at the piano in his huge living room and the unbearable bittersweet melancholy of the music he was playing.
"I wish you were here," I whisper, because I have an urge to hold him. Soothe him.
Even though he won't let me. I want his proximity.
"Do you?" he murmurs blandly. Holy mackerel. This doesn't sound like him, and my scalp prickles with dawning apprehension.
"Yes," I breathe. After an eternity, he sighs.
"I'll see you Sunday?"
"Yes, Sunday," I murmur, and a thrill courses through my body.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Sir."
My address catches him unawares, I can tell by his sharp intake of breath.
"Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia." His voice is soft. And we're both hanging on the phone like teenagers, neither wanting to hang up.
"You hang up," I whisper. Finally, I sense his smile.
"No, you hang up." And I know he's grinning.
"I don't want to."
"Neither do I."
"Were you very angry with me?"
"Yes."
"Are you still?"
"No."
"So you're not going to punish me?"
"No. I'm an in-the-moment kind of guy."
"I've noticed."
"You can hang up now, Miss Steele."
"Do you really want me to, Sir?"
"Go to bed, Anastasia."
"Yes, Sir."
We both stay on the line.
"Do you ever think you'll be able to do what you're told?" He's amused and exasperated at once.
"Maybe. We'll see after Sunday." And I press 'end' on the phone.
Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has re-plugged our TV into the satellite system in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate and I flop on to the couch giggling, impressed by his prowess with a power drill. The flat screen looks odd against the brickwork of the converted warehouse, but no doubt I will get used to it.