Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Hedragsmeovertoanelevatorand,aftertappinganumberintoakeypad,thedoorsopen.It’swarminsideandallmirroredglass.IcanseeChristiantoinfinityeverywhereIlook,andthewonderfulthingishe’sholdingmetoinfinity,too.Christiantapsanothercodeintothekeypad,thenthedoorscloseandtheelevatordescends.

           Momentslater,we’reinanall-whitefoyer.Inthemiddleisaround,darkwoodtable,andonitisanunbelievablyhugebunchofwhiteflowers.Onthewallstherearepaintingseverywhere.Heopensasetofdoubledoors,andthewhitethemecontinuesacrossawidecorridorwheredirectlyopposite,istheentrancetoapalatialroom.It’sthemainlivingarea,doubleheight.“Huge”istoosmallawordforit.ThefarwallisglassandleadsontoabalconythatoverlooksSeattle.

           TotherightisanimposingU-shapedsofathatcouldseattenadultscomfortably.Itfacesastate-of-the-artstainless-steel—ormaybeplatinum,forallIknow—modernfireplace.Thefireislitandflaminggently.Ontheleftbesideus,bytheentryway,isthekitchenarea.Allwhitewithdarkwoodworktopsandabreakfastbarthatseatssix.

           Nearthekitchenarea,infrontoftheglasswall,isadiningtablesurroundedbysixteenchairs.Andtuckedinthecornerisafull-sized,shinyblackgrandpiano.Ohyes…heprobablyplaysthepiano,too.Thereisartofallshapesandsizesonallthewalls.Infact,thisapartmentlooksmorelikeagallerythanaplacetolive.

           “CanItakeyourjacket?”Christianasks.Ishakemyhead.I’mstillcoldfromthewindonthehelipad.