Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has re-plugged our TV into the satellite sys- tem in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate and I flop on to the couch giggling, im- pressed 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.
“See, baby, easy.” He grins a wide white-toothed smile at Kate, and she almost literally dissolves into the couch.
I roll my eyes at the pair of them.
“I’d love to stay, baby, but my sister is back from Paris. It’s a compulsory family din- ner tonight.”
“Can you come by after?” Kate asks tentatively, all soft and un-Katelike.
I stand and make my way over to the kitchen area on the pretense of unpacking one of the crates. They are going to get icky.
“I’ll see if I can escape,” he promises. “I’ll come down with you.” Kate smiles. “Laters, Ana.” Elliot grins.
“Bye, Elliot. Say hi to Christian from me.” “Just hi?” His eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“Yes.” I flush. He winks at me, and I go crimson as he follows Kate out of the apart- ment.
Elliot is adorable and so different from Christian. He’s warm, open, physical, very physical, too physical, with Kate. They can barely keep their hands off each other – to be honest it’s embarrassing - and I am pea-green with envy.
Kate returns about twenty minutes later with pizza, and we sit, surrounded by crates, in our new open space, eating straight from the box. Kate’s dad has done us proud. The apartment is not large, but it’s big enough, three bedrooms and a large living space that looks out on to Pike Place Market itself. It’s all solid wood floors and red brick, and the kitchen tops are smooth concrete, very utilitarian, very now. We both love that we will be in the heart of the city.
At eight the entry-phone buzzes. Kate leaps up - and my heart leaps into my mouth. “Delivery, Miss Steele, Miss Kavanagh.” Disappointment flows freely and unexpect-
edly through my veins. It’s not Christian. “Second floor, apartment two.”
Kate buzzes the delivery boy in. His mouth falls open when he sees Kate, all tight jeans, t-shirt, hair piled high with escaping tendrils. She has that effect on men. He holds a bottle of champagne with a helicopter-shaped balloon attached. She gives him a dazzling smile to send him on his way and proceeds to read the card out to me.
Ladies, Good luck in your new home, Christian Grey.
Kate shakes her head in disapproval.
“Why can’t he just write ‘from Christian’? And what’s with the weird helicopter bal- loon?”
“Charlie Tango.” “What?”
“Christian flew me to Seattle in his helicopter.” I shrug.
Kate stares at me open mouthed. I have to say – I love these occasions – Katherine Ka- vanagh, silent and floored, they are so rare. I take a brief and luxurious moment to enjoy it.
“Yep, he has a helicopter, which he flew himself,” I state proudly.
“Of course the obscenely rich bastard has a helicopter. Why didn’t you tell me?” Kate looks accusingly at me, but she’s smiling, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” She frowns.
“Are you going to be okay while I’m away?”
“Of course.” I answer reassuringly. New city, no job… nut-job boyfriend.
“Did you give him our address?
“No, but stalking is one of his specialties.” I muse, matter-of-fact. Kate’s brow knits further.
“Somehow I’m not surprised. He worries me, Ana. At least it’s a good champagne and it’s chilled.”
Of course, only Christian would send chilled champagne or get his secretary to do it… or maybe Taylor. We open it there and then and find our teacups - they were the last items to be packed.
“Bollinger Grande Année Rosé 1999, an excellent vintage.” I grin at Kate, and we clink teacups.
I wake early to a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates. You should really be unpacking these, my subconscious nags, pursing her harpy lips together. No… today’s the day. My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Anticipation hangs heavy and portentous over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud. Butterflies flood my belly – as well as a darker, carnal, capti- vating ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me… and of course, I have to sign that damned contract or do I? I hear the ping of incoming mail from the mean machine on the floor beside my bed.