Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another
six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this
off. Please,” Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even
ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright,
although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or
Tylenol?”
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record
here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at
her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything.
She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative,
beautiful – and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early,
and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate’s lent me her
sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in
time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twentystory office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Grey
House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. 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.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman
smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I
have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand selfconsciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Kate’s formal blazers
rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only
skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck
one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.
“Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. 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.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I
can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all.
Nothing changes,I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past