Page 7 of Desire

“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.

Natalie’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. Ineverdid 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.

“Hello, Ms. Winters, this is Elise Landry.”

“Elise Landry,” Ms. Winters muses, trying to place my name in the foggy haze of her sleep befuddled mind. “Ah, Elise!” she exclaims, finally recognizing who’s calling. “How are you, Miss Landry?”

“I’m very well, thank you,” I reply and feel myself smiling widely. “I received your letter inviting me to participate in the show. I’m sorry I’ve sat on it for so long, but if there is still a place available for me, I would love to be a contestant.”

“You would? Oh, my God, thank you. I loved you in the ‘Dreamer’s Daughter’. You should have gotten the Oscar for that role. You were robbed of it.”

All evidence of the sleepy show executive has now gone. I let her enthusiasm seep into my soul, replacing my doubts with her praise and strengthening my self-confidence, which is practically non-existent.

“Thank you. You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.”

“I’m sure you hear it all the time.” Ms. Winters yawns. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, no it’s me who should apologize. I’m being rude calling you at such an ungodly hour. You have my number now. Why don’t you call me back when you’re in the office, and we can finalize all the details then?”

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