32 | I’m grateful we existed
32 | i’m grateful we existed
WILLIAM
Dr Fielder’s office was a sanctuary to me, a place I genuinely enjoyed visiting. The old man exhibited a taste that favoured the antiquated, awash in the dignified, muted colours of a bygone era. His desk, an ornate piece of dark wood, stood boldly by the window, echoing the one in my own study. Surrounding it, imposing chestnut bookshelves covered every visible part of the walls, the shelves sagging slightly under the weight of countless tomes.
During our first meeting about three months ago, I’d been delighted to discover that he shared my enthusiasm for literature. Spotting Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari on the coffee table between two leather chairs, I asked if he had read Richard Dawkins’ The Blind Watchmaker .
‘I have,’ he replied, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. ‘Would you say you’re a religious man, William?’ he then asked, and I’d realised before I answered No that he had already commenced his psychological evaluation of me, carefully dissecting my worldview. Psychologists, especially those as indisputably talented as him, sometimes unsettled me – it often seemed like he was inside my head, discreetly observing and rearranging my thoughts, like a surgeon performing an invisible operation on my brain.
He was my sole confidant of the deep impact the assault had on me – the feelings of vulnerability, inferiority, and powerlessness that followed. The incident had underscored a harsh truth: unforeseen events could shatter my sense of control at any moment, a realisation that had haunted me for months. Rather than seeking revenge on Oliver, my true battle had been to reclaim autonomy over my life.
Beyond Dr Fielder, I had shielded the full extent of my ordeal from everyone, including Cara. I refrained from disclosing too much, not wanting to burden them with unnecessary worry. My recovery didn’t necessitate their anguish. Revealing the true depth of my struggles seemed pointless; their sympathy, while well-intentioned, would not alleviate my load but might instead heighten theirs. Conversely, maintaining a fa?ade of improvement proved beneficial, allowing me fleeting moments of respite from my ongoing torment. If Cara, Jason, or my parents truly understood what I endured, our interactions would likely change, laden with concern rather than the casual banter I desperately needed to feel normal. Their anxious questions would only intensify my awareness of my lingering issues.
However, as the months passed, I found strength in gradual and consistent healing. Dr Fielder’s guidance and my own resolve had fostered a newfound stability. I could now genuinely say that, although the memories of the assault occasionally resurfaced, they no longer governed my existence. The support from those around me, albeit shielded from the darkest realities, had empowered me to overcome the most challenging barriers. I was no longer merely acting as if I were doing better – I was better, more whole than I had been since before the assault.
Yet, during today’s session, my responses were less forthcoming, but not by design. The scant sleep I managed last night fogged my mind.
‘Was there anything in particular that kept you up?’ Dr Fielder asked after a moment of silence, the black pen in his grip pausing on a page in his open notebook.
‘Nightmares,’ I murmured.
‘You mentioned last month that they had become less frequent. Has that changed?’ His tone was both clinical and concerned.
I sighed, my brows furrowing as I reached for the glass of water on the table between us and took a sip. ‘Yes, I’ve been having more of them lately.’
‘Really?’ Dr Fielder adjusted his glasses, his keen gaze not missing a beat. ‘How often are they occurring now?’
‘Every night the past week.’ I set the glass back.
‘More than once per night?’
I met his brown eyes. ‘I had six just last night.’
His brows lifted, revealing that he found this notable. He was quick to dribble the information down. ‘Six is a lot. Have you had that many in one night before?’
‘No, I’m exhausted.’
‘Did you experience night sweats, too?’
I nodded. ‘Had to change the sheets this morning.’
‘I see. And are the events still the same? In your dreams?’ He referred to them as dreams right then, but we both knew they were actually memories – I was reliving what had happened that night at the charity gala. Oliver’s account, as he had told it to the detectives and the courts, confirmed as much.
A tightness gripped my throat; I struggled to clear it. ‘They’re… similar.’
‘Similar how?’ Dr Fielder asked gently.
My heartbeat thudded louder in my ears, the familiar edge of discomfort creeping in. But I reminded myself of the necessity of this process for my healing. Initially, I had tried to suppress these memories, but that only fuelled my nightmares, making them more violent and frequent. I knew that confronting them, as painful as it was, remained essential to mitigating their power over me.
‘They start the same way each time.’ I shifted, removing my legs from the rest, leaning forward as my hands clasped tightly between my knees.
‘You’re in the toilets,’ Dr Fielder prompted softly.
‘Yes, at the basin, my back to the door. Someone enters – I glance over my shoulder and see Oliver. He greets me, and I nod, turning back as we exchange small talk. I’m focusing on washing my hands, not noticing his reflection in the mirror until a sudden movement from him catches my eye.’ The words choked off as the images resurfaced with shocking clarity, overwhelming my senses until the room around me seemed to dissolve, leaving me standing once again in that toilet.
A raw, visceral fear surged through me, stark and primal. This fear wasn’t like the complex social fears of losing someone I loved – like the fear of losing Cara. This was more fundamental, more basic.
It was the fear of death.
It spread through my veins, tightening every muscle of my body and seizing my breath.
‘William, concentrate on my voice,’ Dr Fielder commanded, sounding far away. ‘You’re safe here. Look at the table, feel the sofa beneath you,’ he urged, his voice growing more distinct as the room gradually came back into focus.
I clutched the edge of the sofa, the soft fabric slowly grounding me in the here and now.
‘Oliver is in prison, William,’ Dr Fielder reminded me, his voice imbued with calm reassurance. ‘He’s serving a fifteen-year sentence.’
I nodded slowly, repeating his words in my mind like a mantra. I breathed deeply, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, using the technique he had taught me to manage my panic attacks.
Dr Fielder gave me a moment, ensuring I was fully present. Then, with a gentle tone, he asked, ‘When you feel ready, can you tell me what happens next in your dreams?’
I held his gaze, anchored myself to it, resolute not to be pulled back into that horrific scene in the toilet – not completely.
‘I instinctively turn sideways,’ I began, my voice trembling slightly, ‘leaving his knife to strike my arm – instead of my heart, I believe, as that’s where he seemed to be aiming. I think I’m in shock at first because I don’t feel any pain. My entire focus is on disarming him, so I strike him across the face. The knife clatters to the floor between us, and my next impulse is to kick it away, but before I can, he lands a brutal punch to my eye – so hard that everything starts to blur. I nearly black out. Then, before I really know what’s happening, he’s grabbed my head and is slamming it repeatedly against the basin.’
Dr Fielder’s voice was patient yet firm as he asked, ‘And after that, everything goes dark?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, but in my dreams, the nightmare would unfold further; I’d find myself lying on the floor, enveloped in utter darkness, yet acutely aware of every sound as if my body had become a tomb for my consciousness. Unable to move a single muscle, I’d hear Oliver’s chilling threat that he would get Cara next. The sheer panic of wanting to stop him surged within me, a frantic need to rise and save her, but my body refused to respond. Then, her scream – a harrowing sound – shattered the silence, soon replaced by the heavy stillness of death. She was gone, and I had failed to protect her.
Agony would engulf me then, as I lay paralysed on the floor. Guilt tormented me, insisting that my ignorance was to blame for her tragic end. If only I had steered clear of Francesca, Cara might have been safe. My decisions, my actions – they had led to her murder. I’d think of the knife Oliver had stabbed me with, wishing he had succeeded. The weapon lay mere inches from my arm, and all I wanted was to grab it – to drive it into my chest and end my torment, end the overwhelming despair. But I couldn’t move. Denied even death, I was condemned to live with the unbearable pain and the loss of the woman I loved.
I blinked, struggling to remain focused on Dr Fielder’s gaze. ‘Only, this time…’ I murmured, my voice quivering, and I hated the sound of it – hated revealing any sign that Oliver still got to me, hated the power it gave him.
I reached for my glass of water, my hand trembling slightly as I moistened my parched throat. Dr Fielder waited patiently, pen poised, ready to capture every word.
‘I fall to the floor,’ I continued, setting the glass back, ‘immobile like in my other nightmares, but, this time, I can still see. Then Oliver’s face morphs – it becomes Cara’s.’
‘Interesting,’ Dr Fielder observed thoughtfully, his surprise evident yet measured. ‘And what occurs after that?’
I glanced down at my clenched fists, indifferent to his noticing my distress. ‘She stares at me as I’m bleeding out. I want to beg her to save me, but my lips won’t move. Then, she picks up the knife, aiming it at my chest. I try to stop her, but my body refuses to obey. And then she stabs me, right through the heart.’
‘She kills you?’ he asked, his tone reflecting a controlled curiosity.
‘Yes,’ I managed, my pulse pounding in my veins.
Dr Fielder removed his glasses for a moment, massaging the bridge of his beaky nose. ‘And how would you describe your current relationship with Cara, Will?’
I shifted uncomfortably, my eyes drifting to the window, pondering whether to unravel the complexities of Cara.
‘I won’t force you to talk about her if you don’t want to,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s you who decide the pace of this process, not I.’
I sighed, watching as he put on his glasses again.
‘I’d describe our current relationship as…’ I hesitated, scanning the room as if the right words were hidden in its corners. ‘As almost perfect.’
Dr Fielder tilted his head slightly, intrigued. ‘Almost?’
Reclining, I stared up at the ceiling. ‘For it to be perfect, she’d need to be my wife.’
A soft chuckle escaped him. ‘Well, have you considered doing something about that?’
I blew out a loud breath, my gaze still fixed on the ceiling. ‘I have. In fact, I think it’s why my nightmares have returned, and why they’ve changed. I’m afraid she’ll say no if I propose.’
‘Is that why she ends up murdering you in your dreams?’ he asked gently.
‘Yes. Being rejected… That’s how it would feel.’
‘How poetic of you,’ he remarked, and I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘But haven’t you just bought a new flat together?’
‘Yes.’ I locked eyes with him, seeing a faint trace of amusement in his expression. ‘But that’s not as big of a commitment as marriage.’
‘Some would disagree.’
‘Cara wouldn’t.’
He nodded faintly. ‘Have you discussed marriage with her before?’
I swallowed, my chest fluttering with nerves. ‘Yes, we’ve talked about marriage in general terms, but we haven’t discussed it in the context of our own relationship.’
He stroked his bearded mouth, looking thoughtful. ‘And does she seem receptive to the idea in general?’
I paused, recalling our conversations. Cara had never shown aversion to the idea of marriage, yet she hadn’t explicitly stated a desire for it either. ‘I’m not entirely sure, but I’m hopeful.’
‘Well, then perhaps it’s time you find out.’
Leaning forward, I gave a half-smile. ‘Actually, Greg, I plan to do just that after today’s session. That’s probably why I was plagued by six nightmares last night. Nerves, or whatever your professional term for it is.’
Dr Fielder raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. ‘I’d imagine. Perhaps we should schedule a follow-up soon, just in case. You can always postpone it if all goes well.’
I nodded, exhaling deeply. ‘That sounds wise.’
§ § §
The winter sun had deigned to appear, a rare guest in the grey expanse of London’s sky, so I chose to walk from Dr Fielder’s office on Westbourne Terrace back to the new flat in Kensington. Cara and I were to collect the keys today, the flat conveniently situated a stone’s throw from Alexander’s place and not too far from where Olivia now lived with Jason in Notting Hill. We had agreed to meet at eleven, both taking the day off work in anticipation of the removal men who, at noon, would help transplant our lives into this new abode.
It was piercingly cold today, yet it retained a certain stark beauty – the kind that makes one feel more alive or, given my sleep-deprived state, painfully sensitive to the light. Thankfully, I had remembered my sunglasses. Shielded now, I could truly appreciate the surroundings. Tall trees lined the lane, their branches bare and shimmering like silver under the weak fire of the December sun.
As I reached Craven Road, I turned toward Paddington Station. My plan was clear: purchase three cups of coffee – two for Cara and me, and a third empty cup for what I hoped would be a pivotal moment in our lives. A marker was also on my list, a simple tool for a significant task.
Worry nagged at the back of my mind as I approached a shop – the concern that my proposal might not live up to the grand romantic gestures often glorified in films and novels. Yet, knowing Cara, I doubted she would prefer anything ostentatious. She cherished privacy, subtlety, the intimate moments shared without an audience. And I wanted to preserve the element of surprise. This seemingly mundane method would surely catch her unawares, lending a unique charm to the moment. The timing seemed particularly apt as well, coinciding with our move into the new flat, symbolising not just a change of address but a deeper commitment.
As I stepped into the queue, I contemplated the significance of the coffee cups in our relationship. Nearly every morning since we’d met, I had brought Cara a cup of coffee, each bearing a different message scrawled on its side – a daily ritual that had become our silent dialogue of affection and humour.
Today’s message would be the most momentous yet. And inside, beneath the lid, would be the ring – a white gold band with a blue diamond that mirrored the colour of Cara’s eyes.
With the coffees secured and warming my hands through the paper cups, I stepped out of the café and made my way to a nearby shop to purchase a marker. As I approached the counter, a bold headline on the front page of a news paper caught my eye. Scandal Unfolds: Gastronomy Group’s Unethical Practices Exposed.
My pulse quickened as I set the coffees on the counter and picked up a copy, the paper crackling in my hands. Skimming the article, I saw how it detailed a sweeping investigation into Gastronomy Group. It was a surreal moment; the campaign I had initiated before being brutally sidelined was now front-page news. After my assault, Dad had tirelessly continued the fight, defending Fusion, and now, here it was, the culmination of our efforts, sprawled across the newsprint. He’d warned me last night that the news would break today, but I’d been so preoccupied with my plans for proposing to Cara that I had completely forgotten about it.
I purchased the marker and the newspaper, tucking the latter under my arm. As I walked out, my thoughts briefly shifted to Robert Simmons and his unfair dismissal case. Gastronomy would likely seek a quiet settlement to avoid public embarrassment and further damage to their reputation, especially now with the scandal breaking. One way or another, he was due some form of compensation for the injustices he had endured. Knowing Natalie was representing him brought some peace of mind. Her sharp skills in employment law made her exactly the right person to help him secure the compensation he deserved.
As I made my way through the bustling crowd, the cold air suddenly seemed less biting, the winter sun less harsh, as if everything were finally aligning perfectly.
§ § §
I arrived at the spacious Kensington penthouse a bit early, eager and slightly nervous to collect the keys from the estate agent – a cheerful woman who seemed as excited as I was, albeit for different reasons. With the keys now in hand, I first headed to the modern kitchen, which boasted a sleek island at its heart, surrounded by high-end appliances that gleamed under the recessed lighting. The worktops, a pristine black granite, reflected the soft winter sunlight that filtered through the windows.
I set the coffees and the newspaper on the island, then reached into the pocket of my coat, withdrawing the ring box. Taking out the ring, I placed it inside the empty coffee cup and put the lid back on. My hand trembled slightly as I grabbed the marker and wrote on the side of the cup, as steadily as I could manage: Will you marry me?
With the proposal set, I began to tour our new home alone, filled with anticipation of Cara’s arrival and the future we were about to build together. The penthouse sprawled over two expansive floors, each room flowing seamlessly into the next. The living area was bathed in natural light, the vast windows offering a panoramic view of the London skyline. Five bedrooms promised more than enough space for a future family, each one designed with a unique yet understated elegance. The master suite, in particular, was a haven of luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the cityscape and a private balcony where Cara and I could enjoy the city life from above.
As I ambled through the flat, my footfalls echoed slightly on the polished hardwood floors. With each step, I mentally rehearsed my proposal, the words beating in rhythm with my heart.
Suddenly, the doorbell’s chime resonated throughout the space, snapping me back to reality. I hurried to the intercom, my hand shaking slightly as I pressed the button.
‘Hello?’ I managed, trying to sound calm.
‘It’s me.’ Cara’s familiar voice floated through the speaker, sending a jolt through me. My heart catapulted to my throat as I quickly unlocked the door downstairs, too overwhelmed to respond. Leaving the front door ajar, I went back to the kitchen, my mind consumed with thoughts of the proposal.
I leaned against the island, trying to appear casual, but my palms were damp against the cool stone. I wiped them on my trousers, willing the tremor in my hands to stop.
Time stretched unbearably. My pulse thundered in my ears, a relentless reminder of what I was about to do. I tried to take deep breaths, inhaling through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, but despite my best efforts, each one was shallow, barely enough to fill mylungs.
Finally, the sound of footsteps in the hall caught my attention. My heart palpitated.
‘Will?’ Cara’s voice, soft yet clear, cut through the silence.
‘In the kitchen,’ I called out, my voice cracking slightly.
She appeared in the doorway, her striking figure clad in a long purple dress that clung elegantly to her curves. The colour was an uncanny echo of the cocktail dress she had worn the night we first met – the night that had irrevocably altered the trajectory of my life, making it impossible to envision a future without her. It felt almost prophetic that she had chosen to wear purple today, as if the universe itself was nodding in approval of what I was about to do, affirming that everything was indeed aligning perfectly.
Draped over her shoulders was a light-beige coat, and under her arm she carried a newspaper, the same one that had caught my eye earlier.
‘Have you seen this?’ she asked, her eyes wide with excitement as she held up the newspaper for me to see.
I forced a smile, nodding. ‘Yes, I saw it,’ I said, though my focus was not on the newspaper. All I could see was her – the woman I hoped would soon be my fiancée – and all I could feel was the overwhelming desire to make this moment perfect.
‘It’s everywhere, Will! You did so well!’ She stepped closer, and I quickly picked up the cup containing the ring, my hand discreetly covering the text written on its side as I extended it to her.
‘Of course you brought me coffee,’ she murmured, a playful twist on her lips. As she reached out to take the cup, my heart lodged firmly in my throat.
This was it. The point of no return. No time to reconsider my approach or pivot to a grander gesture. What was set in motion had to follow through.
Her fingers brushed against mine as I reluctantly released the cup into her hold. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion as she noted the unexpected lightness.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she asked, shaking the cup slightly, the sound of the ring tinkling inside. Her expression morphed from confusion to intrigue. ‘What’s this? Is it the key?’
I thought I might vomit. The room seemed to tilt around me, and my chest felt as though it were about to implode under the pressure. I could barely breathe, let alone think, as a tumultuous mix of dread and painful hope overwhelmed me. All I could do was stare, helplessly, as she reached for the lid and slowly lifted it.
The moment her eyes caught sight of what lay inside, I dropped to one knee. But before I could utter a single word, she gasped – a sound so sharp and full of surprise it seemed to cut through the room like a knife. In an instant reflex, she sprang back several feet, her eyes wide with shock as they shifted between my figure and the writing on the cup.
As I looked up at her from my kneeled position, a sense of foreboding washed over me. My chest tightened painfully; this reaction – her leaping back – did not bode well.
‘Cara,’ I began, my voice shaking uncontrollably, ‘from the moment we met, you’ve been the heart of my every day. Standing here, on the threshold of a new chapter, I can’t imagine a single day forward without you. You are my morning light and my evening star, the reason every day feels like a blessing.’ I swallowed hard. ‘Will you make me the happiest man alive and say you’ll marry me?’
She brought her hand to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes as the newspaper slipped unnoticed to the floor beside her. The world around us paused on the brink of a response I feared to hear, my heart cracking under the strain.
‘Yes,’ she squeaked, her tears overflowing. ‘Yes!’
I released a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding, relief and euphoria surging through me as Cara whispered Yes yet again. The tension that had gripped my heart shattered, replaced by a warmth that spread through my entire body. I could hardly believe the word, the confirmation of our future together echoing in the air.
Without hesitation, Cara launched herself at me, her momentum bringing us both to the floor in a laughing heap. Her kisses landed all over my face, quick and joyous, as our laughter mingled with the soft sounds of the city beyond our windows. Seizing a moment, I gently took the cup from her, the ring still inside. With a trembling hand, I carefully retrieved the ring and, holding her gaze, slid it onto her finger.
No sooner had the ring settled on her finger than she pulled me close again, her lips meeting mine with renewed passion. We kissed, deeply and fervently, the rest of the world fading away. The intensity of our connection deepened, and we made love right there on the floor, gently and lovingly affirming our commitment.
Exhausted yet content, we lay there afterward, our bodies slack with the aftermath of passion. Cara traced idle circles around the scar on my bicep – a mark left by a past that was both distant and uncomfortably close. Her touch was thoughtful, almost questioning, as if each gentle stroke over the scar was a silent inquiry into the pain it had borne.
‘A lifetime with you doesn’t seem long enough,’ she said softly.
I turned to look at her, the significance of her words resonating in my core. ‘I wish I could have you forever,’ I murmured, cupping her pretty face in my hands. ‘But I’m grateful we existed at the same time, at least.’ It was a simple truth, laced with a bittersweet acceptance that we could only grasp the moments we were given.
Cara smiled, her eyes lighting up with both love and a hint of melancholy. She nestled closer, her head resting on my chest, as if trying to melt into me completely.
We lay there in silence for a while, the sunlight subtly shifting on the floor, its angles growing longer. Eventually, we rose, gathering our clothes in a quiet recognition of the world’s demands. Our movements were slow, unhurried, as if in reluctance to leave the moment behind.
By the window, overlooking the sprawling city, I drew Cara close, my arms wrapped around her waist. A profound sense of peace settled over me. Here, with Cara, was where I was meant to be.
She drew back a little, her eyes locking with mine. And there, in our shared gaze, was a tacit acknowledgement that no matter the challenges ahead, they were no longer just mine, or hers, but ours to face together.
The future – it was ours.