The first semester in Oxford has already started. Balancing between studying to become a lawyer and life in general, Julia Eden has found herself sitting across from a shrink, or in better words: a psychologist.
It only gets worse when the old man s...
a quick note here: only the prologue and the epilogue will be written in the first person. The rest of the story is written in third person and from different perspectives from time to time.
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"Sir Clarke will be down shortly," the (probably) French butler informed me for the third time and I nodded at him.
Fancy.
I had been sitting on the teal, Blanca petrol velvet sofa, observing the room.
It was softly-lit. The silky, olive curtains on the wall behind me were drawn. And the air was stale, smelling ancient and slightly addictive at the hint of pipe tobacco. Across from me was a velvet couch and behind that a console table bearing Victorian antiques. A mahogany staircase swept up behind the couch.
I stared at the rose-gold watch on my wrist. It wasn't until another ten minutes when a voice reached me, "Miss Eden."
Dr. Quinn made his way down the stairs with easy grace, same as I had last seen him in the seminar last week. But he looked a little disheveled, with his greying hair matted on a side. He looked like he had been drinking.
"Dr. Quinn, thank you for having me here." I stood, the air chilly against my bare knees. "I realize my timing isn't quite right."
"I didn't plan to take a kip this afternoon, Julianne. Can I call you Julianne?" He extended a pale, wrinkled hand out to me and I shook it, saying yes.
"Have a seat. I believe you've completed your assessment," he smiled, his blue eyes crinkling as he sat on the blue, velvet armchair to my right. His skin had wrinkled, his movements had slowed but the blue of his eyes seemed so much younger.
"Yes, I have." I managed to take the paper out from my backpack and handed it to him while he reached for his black-framed glasses that dangled from the V of his sweater. As he put them on, I noticed how much he resembled my father. Even his drawing room had a large amount of pretentious antiques that my father would surely approve of.
"So, you are suffering from Insomnia?" He was direct, taking me back to reality.
"I think so. Yes."
"For how long approximately?"
"Since I was twelve years old."
"Have you had treatments for it before?" He set the paper on the coffee table beside his chair. It occurred to me that he might have a flashy taste in decoration, but he dressed casually. Even now, he wore a simple, navy, cashmere sweater, black pants and well, a not-so-casual silk robe.
