distant buzz. I don’t hear the words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of the

gas from the fire.

My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and the huge fireplaces—real fire-

places for burning wood. I’d like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d like

to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he’d

think of some way to make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I snort wryly

to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable,

too. Where is he?

The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive, keeping me numb. I focus solely

on their flaring, scorching beauty. They are bewitching.

Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.

He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no . . .

I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds

into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango

is missing.

“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice bringing me back into the room,

into the now, into the anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and saucer grate-

fully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed tears and the large lump in my

throat.

Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large U-shaped couch, holding hands with

Grace. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks older—

a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring

smile, a tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness. I gaze at El-

liot, José, and Ethan, who stand around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.

Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them, Mrs. Jones busies herself in

the kitchen.

Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I hear the faint squawk from the big

plasma TV. I can’t bear to see the news item again—cHristian grey missing—his beautiful

face on TV.

Idly, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many people in this room, yet they are still

dwarfed by its sheer size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s home. What

would he think about them being here?

Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the authorities who are drip-feeding us

information, but it’s all meaningless. The fact is—he’s missing. He’s been missing for eight

hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off—this much I do know.

It’s just too dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt, hungry, or worse. No!

I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let Christian be okay. Please let Christian

be okay.I repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my lifeline, something concrete

to cling to in my desperation. I refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is hope.

“You’re my lifeline.”

Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair.

His words echo through my mind.

“I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana.”

Why didn’t I seize the day?

“I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life

with.”

I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please, let the rest of his life not be this

short. Please, please.We haven’t had enough time . . . we need more time. We’ve done so

much in the last few weeks, come so far. It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick,

when he made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on his knees in front of me

offering himself to me, finally touching him.

“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please.”

Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow—all the light

eclipsed. No, no, no . . . my poor Christian.

“This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make you

realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you.”

And I you, my Fifty Shades.

I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time to-

gether flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his

suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in

the apartment to Sinatra, whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the

house—that stunning view.

“I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want you, body and soul, forever.”

Oh, please, let him be okay. He cannot be gone. He is the center of my universe.

An involuntary sob escapes my throat, and I clutch my hand to my mouth. No. I must

be strong.

José is suddenly at my side, or has he been there a while? I have no idea.

“Do you want to call your mom or dad?” he asks gently.

No! I shake my head and clutch José’s hand. I cannot speak, I know I will dissolve if I

do, but the warmth and gentle squeeze of his hand offers me no solace.

Oh, Mom. My lip trembles at the thought of my mother. Should I call her? No. I

couldn’t deal with her reaction. Maybe Ray, he wouldn’t get emotional—he never gets

emotional, not even when the Mariners lose.

Grace rises to join the boys, distracting me. That must be the longest she’s sat still. Mia

comes to sit beside me too and grabs my other hand.

“He will come back,” she says, her voice initially determined but cracking on the last

word. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her face pale and pinched from lack of sleep.

I gaze up at Ethan, who is watching Mia and Elliot, who has his arms around Grace. I

glance at the clock. It’s after eleven, heading toward midnight. Damn time!With each pass-

ing hour, the clawing emptiness expands, consuming me, choking me. I know deep down

inside I am preparing myself, preparing myself for the worst. I close my eyes and offer up

another silent prayer, clasping both Mia and José’s hands.

Opening them again, I stare into the flames once more. I can see his shy smile—my

favorite of all his expressions, a glimpse of the real Christian, my real Christian. He is so

many people: control freak, CEO, stalker, sex god, Dom—and at the same time—such a

boy with his toys. I smile. His car, his boat, his plane . . . Charlie Tango . . . no . . . no . . .

my lost boy, truly lost right now. My smile fades and pain lances through me. I remember

him in the shower, wiping away the lipstick marks.

“I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t have a heart.”

The lump in my throat expands. Oh, Christian, you do, you do have a heart, and it’s

mine. I want to cherish it forever. Even though he’s so complex and difficult, I love him. I

will always love him. There will never be anyone else. Ever.

I remember sitting in Starbucks weighing up my Christian pros and cons. All those

cons, even those photographs I found this morning, melt into insignificance now. There’s

just him and whether he’ll come back. Oh please, Lord, bring him back, please let him be

okay. I’ll go to church . . . I’ll do anything.Oh, if I get him back, I shall seize the day. His

voice echoes around my head once more: “Carpe diem, Ana.”

I gaze deeper into the fire, the flames still licking and curling around each other, blaz-

ing brightly. Then Grace shrieks, and everything goes into slow motion.