E L James
Grey
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After twenty-five years working in TV, E L James decided to pursue her childhood dream, and set out to write stories that readers would fall in love with. The result was the sensuous romance Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, a trilogy that went on to sell more than 125 million copies worldwide in 52 languages.
In 2012 E L James was named one of Barbara Walters’s “Ten Most Fascinating People of the Year,” one of Time magazine’s “Most Influential People in the World,” and Publishers Weekly’s “Person of the Year.” Fifty Shades of Grey stayed on the New York Times Best Seller List for 133 consecutive weeks, and in 2015 the film adaptation—on which James worked as producer—broke box-office records all over the world for Universal Pictures.
E L James lives in West London with her husband, the novelist and screenwriter Niall Leonard, and their two sons. She continues to write novels while acting as producer on the upcoming movie versions of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed.
BOOKS BY E L JAMES
Fifty Shades of Grey
Fifty Shades Darker
Fifty Shades Freed
Grey
This book is dedicated to those readers who asked…
and asked…and asked…and asked for this.
Thank you for all that you’ve done for me.
You rock my world every day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Thanks to:
Anne Messitte for her guidance, good humor, and belief in me. For her generosity with her time and for her unstinting effort to untangle my prose, I am forever indebted.
Tony Chirico and Russell Perreault for always looking out for me, and the fabulous production editorial and design team who saw this book across the finish line: Amy Brosey, Lydia Buechler, Katherine Hourigan, Andy Hughes, Claudia Martinez, and Megan Wilson.
Niall Leonard for his love, support, and guidance, and for being the only man who can really, really make me laugh.
Valerie Hoskins, my agent, without whom I’d still be working in TV. Thank you for everything.
Kathleen Blandino, Ruth Clampett, and Belinda Willis: thanks for the pre-read.
The Lost Girls for their precious friendship and the therapy.
The Bunker Babes for their constant wit, wisdom, support, and friendship.
The FP ladies for help with my Americanisms.
Peter Branston for his help with SFBT.
Brian Brunetti for his guidance in flying a helicopter.
Professor Dawn Carusi for help in navigating the U.S. higher education system.
Professor Chris Collins for an education in soil science.
Dr. Raina Sluder for her insights into behavioral health.
And last but by no means least, my children. I love you more than words can ever say. You bring such joy to my life and to those around you. You are beautiful, funny, bright, compassionate young men, and I could not be more proud of you.
MONDAY, MAY 9, 2011
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I have three cars. They go fast across the floor. So fast. One is red. One is green. One is yellow. I like the green one. It’s the best. Mommy likes them, too. I like when Mommy plays with the cars and me. The red is her best. Today she sits on the couch staring at the wall. The green car flies into the rug. The red car follows. Then the yellow. Crash! But Mommy doesn’t see. I do it again. Crash! But Mommy doesn’t see. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I can’t reach it. My hand is too big for the gap. Mommy doesn’t see. I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesn’t hear me. Mommy. I pull her hand and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Not now, she says. My green car stays under the couch. It’s always under the couch. I can see it. But I can’t reach it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. But I can’t reach it. I can never reach it. My green car is lost. Lost. And I can never play with it again.
I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them.
Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I’m not in the mood to be rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill.
My thoughts stray to the day. I’ve nothing but meetings, though I’m seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office—Bastille is always a welcome challenge.
Maybe I should call Elena?
Yeah. Maybe. We can do dinner later this week.
I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day.
“TOMORROW,” I MUTTER, DISMISSING Claude Bastille as he stands at the threshold of my office.
“Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.
I scowl at him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because, despite my heroic attempts during our workout today, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways, I have to endure his lessons there, too…and though I hate to admit it, playing against Bastille does improve my game.
As I stare out the window at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend, and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.
I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? I check my schedule and reach for the phone.
Damn. I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student newspaper. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews—inane questions from ill-informed, envious people intent on probing my private life. And she’s a student. The phone buzzes.
“Yes,” I snap at Andrea, as if she’s to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.
“Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey.”
“Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh.”
“It’s Miss Anastasia Steele who’s here, sir.”
I hate the unexpected. “Show her in.”
Well, well…Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, Eamon, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We’ve done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in on later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple has fallen far from the tree.
A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives headfirst into my office. Repressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.