Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.  
    Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or forties—it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair shines like a halo, cut in sharp bob. As she turns, she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.
    “Excuse me,” Christian mumbles hurriedly.
    He strides quickly through the salon, past the hair stylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sinks, and over to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation. Platinum Blonde greets him with obvious affection, kissing both his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, and they talk animatedly together.
    “Miss Steele?”
    Greta the receptionist is trying to get my attention.
    “Hang on a moment, please.” I watch Christian, fascinated.
    Platinum Blonde turns and looks at me, and gives me the same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smile politely back.  
    Christian looks upset about something. He’s reasoning with her, and she’s acquiescing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He’s smiling at her—clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they’ve worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.
    Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It’s her. Stunning, older, beautiful.  
    It’s Mrs. Robinson.

      Emily Dickinson, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” first stanza.

“Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?” My scalp is trying to leave the building. It’s prickling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound nonchalant enough.
    “Oh, that’s Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Grey.” Greta seems more than happy to share.
    “Mrs. Lincoln?” I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she’s remarried to some poor sap.
    “Yes. She’s not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she’s filling in.”
    “Do you know Mrs. Lincoln’s first name?”
    Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.
    “Elena,” she says, almost reluctantly.
    I’m swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down.  
    Spidey sense ? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense .  
    They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.  
    I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I’m in shock. How could he bring me here?  
    She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks my way briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods, and I think she’s wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills aren’t highly developed.  
    Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face. Damn right . Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room, closing the door behind her.
    Christian frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks, but his voice is strained, cautious.
    “Not really. You didn’t want to introduce me?” My voice sounds cold, hard.
    His mouth drops open, he looks as if I’ve pulled the rug from under his feet.
    “But I thought—”
    “For a bright man, sometimes . . .” Words fail me. “I’d like to go, please.”
    “Why?”
    “You know why.” I roll my eyes.
    He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.
    “I’m sorry, Ana. I didn’t know she’d be here. She’s never here. She’s opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that’s where she’s normally based. Someone was sick today.”
    I turn on my heel and head for the door.
    “We won’t need Franco, Greta,” Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all this fuckedupness.
    Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull all this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will Mr. Evasive fess up?
    “You used to take your subs there?” I snap.
    “Some of them, yes,” he says quietly, his