|When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent|
|Title: Fifty Shades of Grey|
|Author: E.L. JAMES|
|Chapter: Chapter 164|
|I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair-it just|
won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to
this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet
here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it
wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I
attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. 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. My only option is to restrain my
wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.
Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to
Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with
some mega-industri-alist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper.
So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to
finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no-today I have to
drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the
enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. 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. A
real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.
Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room.
“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 itEven 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
“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 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. 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 self-consciously 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 the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed
than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The
doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby-again all glass, steel, and
white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young
blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.
“Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area
of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an
equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it.
Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle
skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning
vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them,
inwardly curs-ing Kate for not providing me with a brief biography. I know
nothing about this man I’m about to interview. He could be ninety or he could
be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me
fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the
anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of
the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British
novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching
nervously in a colos-sal glass and stone edifice.