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Anastasia Steele. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s from my mom or Ray.
“It’s probably from my folks.”
“Open it!” Kate is excited as she heads into the kitchen for our ‘Exams are finished
hurrah Champagne’.
I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing three seemingly identi-
cal old cloth-covered books in mint condition and a plain white card. Written on one side,
in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:
I recognize the quote from Tess.I am stu
hours writing about the novels of Thomas Hardy in my final examination. Perhaps there
is no irony… perhaps it’s deliberate. I inspect the books closely, three volumes of Tess of
the D’Urbervilles.I open the front cover. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is:
‘London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.’
Holy shit - they are first editions. They must be worth a fortune, and I know immedi-
ately who’s sent them. Kate is at my shoulder gazing at the books. She picks up the card.
“First Editions,” I whisper.
“No.” Kate’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Grey?”
I nod.
“Can’t think of anyone else.”
“What does this card mean?”
“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning – honestly he keeps warning me off. I have no
idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his door down.” I frown.
“I know you don’t want to talk about him, Ana, but he’s seriously into you. Warnings
or no.”
I have not let myself dwell on Christian Grey for the past week. Okay… so his gray
eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of
his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me this?
He told me that I wasn’t for him.
“I’ve found one Tessfirst edition for sale in New York at $14,000. But yours looks
in much better condition. They must have cost more.” Kate is consulting her good friend
Google.
“This quote – Tess says it to her mother after Alec D’Urberville has had his wicked
way with her.”
“I know,” muses Kate. “What is he trying to say?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll send them back with
an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.”
“The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Kate asks with a completely straight face.
“Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Kate, she’s so loyal and supportive. I repack the books
and leave them on the dining table. Kate hands me a glass of champagne.
“To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle,” she grins.
“To the end of exams, our new life in Seattle, and excellent results.” We clink glasses
and drink.
The bar is loud and hectic, full of soon to be graduates out to get trashed. José joins us. He
won’t graduate for another year, but he’s in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of
our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I
know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.
“So what now Ana?” José shouts at me over the noise.
“Kate and I are moving to Seattle. Kate’s parents have bought a condo there for her.”
“Dios mio, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my show.”
“Of course, José, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, and he puts his arm around
my waist and pulls me close.
“It means a lot to me that you’ll be there Ana,” he whispers in my ear. “Another mar-
garita?”
“José Luis Rodriguez – are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it’s working.”
I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go get us a pitcher.”
“More drink, Ana!” Kate bellows.
Kate has the constitution of an ox. She’s got her arm draped over Levi, one of our fel-
low English students and her usual photographer on her student newspaper. He’s given up
taking photos of the drunke
tiny camisole, tight jeans, and high heels, hair piled high with tendrils hanging down softly
around her face, her usual stu
girl, but I’m wearing my most flattering jeans. I move out of José’s hold and get up from
our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails
are not a good idea.
I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the powder room while I am on
my feet. Good thinking, Ana.I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but
at least it’s quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom
of waiting in line. Hmm… Who did I last call?Was it José? Before that a number I don’t
recognize. Oh yes. Grey, I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time
is, maybe I’ll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic
message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin
and hit the automatic re-dial. He answers on the second ring.
“Anastasia?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to ring him.
Then my befuddled brain registers… how does he know it’s me?
“Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him.
“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is filled with concern.
“I’m not the strange one, you are,” I accuse. There - that told him, my courage fuelled
by alcohol.
“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m – curious. Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“Which bar?” He sounds exasperated.
“A bar in Portland.”
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.
“Which bar are you in?”
“Why did you send me the books, Christian?”
“Anastasia, where are you, tell me now.” His tone is so, so dictatorial, his usual control
freak. I imagine him as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fash-
ioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.
“You’re so… domineering,” I giggle.
“Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?”
Christian Grey is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Portland… s’a long way
from Seattle.”
“Where in Portland?”
“Goodnight, Christian.”
“Ana!”
I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not ac-
complished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the
line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s
like – probably not an experience to be repeated.The line has moved, and it’s now my
turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the toilet door that extols the virtues of
safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Christian Grey? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me
jump. I yelp in surprise.
“Hi,” I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this.
“I’m coming to get you,” he says and hangs up. Only Christian Grey could sound so
calm and so threatening at the same time.
Holy crap.I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me? Oh no.I’m
going to be sick… no… I’m fine. Hang on. He’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell
him where I was. He can’t find me here. Besides, it will take him hours to get here from
Seattle, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror.
I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm… tequila.
I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually