There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay
for a few more precious minutes. I want to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is
too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets me –
sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright
light. Why didn’t we close the blinds last night? I am in Christian Grey’s vast bed minus
one Christian Grey.
I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle’s
skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy – a castle in the air, adrift from the
ground, safe from the realities of life – far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore
mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he
lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art – so far removed from
where he started… mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn’t explain why
I can’t touch him.
Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I’m adrift from reality. I’m in this
fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality
is he wants a special arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more. What does that actually
mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on
the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.I clamber out of bed feeling stiff, and for want of a better expression, well-used. Yes,
that would be all the sex then. My subconscious purses her lips in disapproval. I roll my
eyes at her, grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the room, and
resolve to ask him about the personal trainer. That’s if I sign. My inner goddess glares at
me in desperation. Of course you’ll sign. I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the
bathroom, I go in search of Christian.
He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen
area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes;
she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when
she sees me.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. Would you like some breakfast?” Her tone is warm
but business like, and I am stunned. Who is this attractive blonde in Christian’s kitchen?
I’m only wearing Christian’s t-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack of
clothing.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” My voice is quiet, unable to hide the
anxiety in my voice.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry – I’m Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey’s housekeeper.”
Oh.
“How do you do?” I manage.
