Page 8 of Easy Rumba

Chapter 3

Elise

“You stupid, fucking bitch, how could you think you’d show me up in front of our friends and get away with it? Are you thick in the head or something? I can’t believe it,” Simon screams at me.

His booming voice fills the room, and he’s shaking his fists around like a madman, gesturing his anger as well as voicing it. I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done. Tonight we went to a fundraising event for a local charity. There was a stunning portrait for auction of a little girl playing with a ball on a beach in Malibu. I adored it and thought it would go perfectly in my office, so I bid on it. I got it for a price I could easily afford, considering I earn a few million each movie I make, but it seems to have angered Simon that I’ve purchased it. He stomps over to where the picture, wrapped up for its protection, leans against our white leather sofa. Before I have a chance to stop him the picture is flying through the air and hits the wall on the opposite side of the room. Next thing I know, Simon rushes over and starts jumping on it.

“Stop, please.” I’m desperately trying to plead with him and rescue the painting at the same time, but it’s little more than firewood now—the canvas is ruined, and the frame smashed.

“You picked the most idiotic thing in the room to purchase, and I told you to stop bidding, but you didn’t. You made it look as though I can’t control my own wife. Everyone now thinks I allow you to spend money like it’s going out of fashion and especially on rubbish. The artist was crap. In fact, the whole event was a waste of my time. It’s the last charity event I do. It’s just another means to take advantage of us.”

“Simon, really? That’s not true.”

I’ve never seen him so angry before. It’s scaring me a little. We married two years ago after a whirlwind romance. Our feelings for each other blossomed when we presented an award together and went for a drink afterward. I wasn’t sure at first about starting a relationship as I’d only been in Hollywood a year, but I’d made exceptional progress and had just been lined up for my first major starring role. Simon was a couple years older than me and was already a household name in the action movie scene. We married in his mansion with all our friends from Hollywood watching. The rights to the wedding pictures were sold to a celebrity magazine, and I spent the entire day with a camera in my face. It wasn’t exactly how I envisaged my big day, but I knew Simon had an important project coming up, and the advertising was good for him.

“Since I married you, people aren’t interested in me. All they want to know about is you. It’s as though I don’t exist anymore. It’s all about you, always you.”

“Simon, please, you’re the bigger star out of the two of us easily. I’ve done virtually nothing compared to the movies you’ve been in.” I try to calm him down by pressing my body against his and using the warmth of it to soothe whatever is causing this terrifying anger. “Please, you’re scaring me.” I press my forehead against his, willing him to remember the love he has for me. I need that side of him now to calm the nervous tension drowning me at the moment.

It doesn’t appear, though. Instead, an even darker side of him emerges.

Simon leans his head back before slamming it forward into my face, head-butting me with so much force I go tumbling backward and land on the floor. My head spins, and I feel sick.

“Look what you made me do.” Simon looms over me his fists clenched. He reaches down and grabs hold of the fabric of the silk dress I’m wearing and pulls me up to my feet. The fabric rips, exposing my small breasts. “You’ve destroyed me and my career. You’ve made me a laughingstock in Hollywood. Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“I’m sorry,” the words fly from my mouth before I even register what I’m saying. I’m in shock. I don’t understand what’s happening. This man loves me, but he’s hurting me, and I’m afraid it might not stop here. “Please, Simon, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Tell me what to do to make it better, and I’ll do it. I love you.” I can hear how weak and feeble my words sound. I don’t understand what I’m saying sorry for, but I love him. He’s my world, and I just want to make everything better.

Simon’s nostrils flare as he stares at me, taking in what I’m saying and digesting it. His eyes are dark as if the devil has taken him over.

“There is only one way for you to make it up to me, and to show the world how much you love me. I want us to have a child, a baby. We’ll prove to all those people who judge our relationship that there’s nothing wrong. They’ll see we’re a loving couple, and you’re not just a whore trying to wreck my career.”

“Anything. Yes, let’s have a child together.” I cling to his strong forearms, trying to keep myself upright when all I want to do is curl into a little ball and cry. “I promise you I’m not trying to destroy your career. I love you, Simon, please…let’s go make a baby together.”

I sit bolt upright in the bed, sweat glistening over my body from the nightmare. I haven’t dreamed about Simon attacking me in a long while. He took me that night. It wasn’t loving—it was painful and forceful, but I consented because I wanted to have my old husband back. The man who worshiped me. I never got him, though. In fact, things got a lot worse when Izzy was born nine months later.

Inhaling deeply, I try to erase the vision of him smacking his head into mine. My face was badly bruised the following day, and I didn’t leave the house for a week just in case anyone saw what had happened to me. Phantom pains throb at my temples, and I softly massage over them in circles, hoping to dispel an impending migraine. It doesn’t work, and I slide from my bed and wrap my dressing gown around my thin nightdress. It was warm and humid when I went to bed, but now in the early hours of the morning, it’s a little chilly.

I stumble into the bathroom, and finding some painkillers, I pop a couple into my mouth and swallow them down with a glass of water poured from the sink. Hopefully, they’ll work. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Gone is the youthful girl who once dreamed about making it big in Hollywood. She got her wish but has been left jaded. I’ve not slept properly in a few nights, and there are dark rings under my eyes. I’m restless and bored. My life has become a constant routine of taking Izzy to school and worrying endlessly about her. I love my daughter with all my heart, but it’s not good for either of us.

I need to break the cycle.

Do something with my life again.

Stop being a victim.

Gabby’s right. Why should I hide away when I’ve done nothing wrong? That’s the most important part I need to recognize. I’m not the one responsible. I didn’t embarrass Simon in front of his friends. I never did anything to make my husband hurt me.

Leaning forward, I run the faucet and splash cold water over my face. My head still throbs, but it’s not as bad as before, and when I look back in the mirror, I see the face of a determined woman with renewed hope.

I leave the bathroom and look up at the picture on my bedroom wall. I put it there to remind me of the fact I was not the one at fault. It’s the picture of the little girl playing on the beach. I requested a copy from the artist when I moved here, and they were more than happy to oblige. I smile at it and make my way silently from my bedroom so as not to wake Izzy, who’s still sleeping in the room next to mine.

I make my way down the hallway, my bare feet padding lightly on the wooden floor, and into the lounge. My handbag rests on the table where I left it earlier after collecting Izzy from school. I’m not a slob. I like to keep my place tidy, but not putting everything away is part of my rebellion against Simon’s rules. Reaching inside my handbag, I retrieve the letter from the producers of the dance show. I scan the page for details of how to respond to them. There’s a contact number. The clock sitting on my mantelpiece is showing three am, so it will be one am in Los Angeles, which is where the letter was sent from. It’s far too early to call.

Screw it!

I pick up the house phone and dial the number.

“Hello, Leah Winters,” a groggy, sleep-filled voice answers.

---