Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Iflushatmywaywardandinappropriatethoughts.ThereceptionistisayoungAfrican-Americanwomanwithlargesilverearringsandlongstraightenedhair.Shehasabohemianlookabouther,thesortofwomanIcouldbefriendlywith.Thethoughtiscomforting.Everyfewmomentssheglancesatupme,awayfromhercomputer,andsmilesreassuringly.Itentativelyreturnhersmile.

           Myflightisbooked,mymotherisinseventhheaventhatIamvisiting,Iampacked,andKatehasagreedtodrivemetotheairport.ChristianhasorderedmetotakemyBlackBerryandtheMac.Irollmyeyesatthememoryofhisoverbearingbossiness,butIrealizenowthat’sjustthewayheis.Helikescontrolovereverything,includingme.Yethe’ssounpredictablyanddisarminglyagreeable,too.Hecanbetender,good-humored,evensweet.Andwhenheis,it’ssoleftfieldandunexpected.Heinsistedonaccompanyingmeallthewaydowntomycarinthegarage.Jeez,I’monlygoingforafewdays;he’sactinglikeI’mgoingforweeks.Healwayskeepsmeoffbalance.

           “AnaSteele?”Awomanwithlong,black,pre-Raphaelitehairstandingbythereceptiondeskdistractsmefrommyintrospection.Shehasthesamebohemian,floatylookasthereceptionist.Shecouldbeinherlatethirties,maybeinherforties.It’ssodifficulttotellwitholderwomen.

           “Yes,”Ireply,standingawkwardly.

           Shegivesmeapolitesmile,hercoolhazeleyesassessingme.IamwearingoneofKate’sdresses,ablackpinaforeoverawhiteblouse,andmyblackpumps.Veryinterview,Ithink.