by Tanith Morse
With that out of the way, I was now free to immerse myself in the growing media circus surrounding Bret. His Mexican housekeeper had sold a story to the Sun, saying that her employer was a known sleepwalker, and she had often found him around the house in a trance. This implied that he had somehow ‘sleepwalked’ off the yacht to his death - a ludicrous theory if ever there was one.
Then there was an exclusive in the Mirror with Bret’s estranged brother Mick, talking about his years as a drug addict and how his sibling was prone to depression over a long-standing family feud. He insinuated that Bret may have committed suicide. This article, more than the others, took a very gloomy perspective on the whole thing; it was as if the journalists at the Mirror had accepted that Bret was dead and it was now just a case of finding out the ‘why’ of it.
On a more upbeat note, the Daily Mail ran a two-page article chronicling the highs and lows of his film career, focusing in particular, on the Best Actor Oscar that had always eluded him. It said that Bret was one of the most hardworking men in Hollywood, with one of the most wide and varied CVs, yet somehow, this had not been recognised at the Oscars. There was, however, a buzz surrounding his most recent work: a Woody Allen comedy that had debuted at Cannes to rave reviews. In Everybody Loves Sid, Bret played a neurotic screenwriter who, after two failed marriages, went on a tour of Europe to ‘find himself.’Through various serendipitous encounters, sardonic one-liners and an unfortunate incident with a transsexual prostitute, Sid learned not take himself too seriously and that ‘life was what you made it.’
One reviewer had described Bret’s performance as ‘perfect’, ‘heartbreakingly real’ and ‘the most serious contender for next year’s Best Actor Oscar.’
I put down the paper, walked over to the kitchen window and opened the blinds to let some more light in. The street outside looked cold and grey. Beyond, I could just make out the silhouette of the O2. I liked the view. It was one of the reasons I’d got the flat in the first place.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. To my surprise, it was already three o’clock in the afternoon. Where had the day gone? I had been so engrossed in Bret Vincent, the time had just flown by.
I went to the cabinet above the sink and brought out a pair of scissors. I had decided to keep all the newspaper clippings – my way of recording the events as they unfolded. If it turned out that Bret was indeed dead, at least I would have some keepsakes. My laptop sat on the table. Since morning, I had been placing bids on eBay for Bret memorabilia. So far, I had winning bids on the following items:
A Bret Vincent ball-point pen set
A new and gift-boxed Bret Vincent collectable mug cup and coaster set
A Bret Vincent collector’s thimble
A Bret Vincent 25mm button badge
Two-disc special edition DVD of Intergalactic
Signed original 1984 poster for My Brother Daryl
A Bret Vincent key ring
A Bret Vincent novelty credit card
An A1 poster of Everybody Loves Sid
A Bret Vincent fridge magnet
A rare, hard to find LP of Broadway musical covers released by Bret in the mid ‘90s
A Bret Vincent figurine
Miscellaneous autographs
A limited edition Bret Vincent jacket
A set of Bret Vincent wine glasses
Original soundtrack recording from Johnny Come Lately (in which Bret actually played guitar)
An A4 glossy poster of Bret Vincent topless
A lock of Bret Vincent’s hair (allegedly)
I sat at the table and proceeded to cut and paste extracts from the Sun into a fluffy scrapbook. The sensual strains of Sade’s Jezebel filled the room. I had always loved her music. The sultry melancholy of her songs always seemed to resonate with me, an expression of the pain of unrequited love that had been the bane of my life.
Suddenly, my phone started ringing. A hollow, unfriendly tone. I reached across the table and picked it up.
It was my sister Beth.
‘I was just thinking of you,’ I lied.
‘Where are you?’ she said breathlessly. ‘What are you doing? Are you free to talk?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I pulled a face, dreading where the conversation was heading.
‘Darling, I’m so upset. I just found out that Vicky didn’t get a place at Broadwood. Can you believe it?’
‘Gosh, that’s terrible,’ I deadpanned.
‘I know! Isn’t it just? But what really irritates me is that Jo Morris managed to get her kid a place last year. They’re not even in the catchment area! You know, Phil and I would never have moved here if we’d known that Vicky wasn’t going to get in. I’m telling you, Mads, we won’t go down without a fight. I’ve already started drafting our appeal, and I want to read it to you to get your opinion.’
I had lost the will to live. Vicky was all Beth seemed to talk about these days. Following years of childlessness and expensive IVF, Vicky was the Godsend that Beth and her husband Phil had been hoping for. Unfortunately, they had spoilt the child rotten. But there was no telling my sister that. Having a child at forty was a gift to be treasured, a lamb to be nurtured, even if that lamb turned out to be a scheming, manipulative little brat.
As Beth continued to ramble about the unfairness of it all, my mind drifted elsewhere. Despite growing up in the same household, our lives as sisters couldn’t have turned out more differently. Beth was four years older than me, and marginally better looking. She was big but carried herself with the haughty confidence of a catwalk model. She had been a rebellious teenager, causing our parents no end of grief. At seventeen, she had rebelled and moved to Dorking with a group of New Age squatters. We heard nothing from her for two years. Then, when she was twenty, she returned home briefly to make a fresh start. She found a job working for the Red Cross, where she met her future husband. Since then, she’d led a pretty hedonistic lifestyle, spending most of her time trying to reinvent herself. One day she was the health conscious fitness fanatic, the next a Buddhist faith healer. Everything in Beth’s life seemed to revolve around her, and she was completely incapable of doing anything selfless.
Still, despite all her shortcomings, there were still things about my sister that I envied. She had a beautiful house in Highgate for example, a husband who doted on her and an aesthetically pleasing daughter. What more could a woman ask for?
What really burned was that, despite all her reckless and selfish behaviour, life appeared to have rewarded Beth with all the things I lacked. I, who had stayed at home to nurse our mother when she was diagnosed with MS, who had played the good and dutiful daughter and never given our parents a moment’s worry, was now facing a childless, friendless, lonely old-age. Where was the fairness in that?
‘So what do you think?’
‘Um, what?’
‘What do you think of my appeal letter? Do you think it’s too harshly worded? You don’t think the school will think me too pushy?’
‘No,’ I stammered,’ of course they won’t. It’s great.’
‘Oh good.’ Beth sounded pleased. ‘Okay, must dash. By the way, are we still on for the twenty-sixth?’
‘The twenty-sixth?’
‘Next month. Phil’s birthday party.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll be there.’
‘Good, good. Love you.’
Then she hung up. Just like that. No questions about how my week had been or how I was. But then, Beth was probably so used to my life being uneventful, so used to my dullard’s existence, that she saw no point in asking. Anyway, what would I update her on? A date? A boyfriend? Not likely.
I came off the phone feeling more disturbed than I had before she’d called. Speaking to Beth always reminded me how bleak and lonely my life was, how completely devoid of love. She at least had Phil to keep her warm at nights and a daughter to shower with affection. What did I have? A dead-end job and a hot water bottle to take to bed with me.
* * *
Two weeks passed and
there was still no sign of Bret Vincent. Despite the absence of a body, America seemed to have satisfied itself of the fact that he had most probably drowned. What other possible explanation could there be? Why would a successful actor with the world at his feet, millions in the bank, a glittering career and a beautiful girlfriend choose to disappear off the face of the Earth? It was utterly inconceivable.
What gave more weight to the death theory were the testimonies from the many celebrities who had witnessed the event. These were people we could trust; familiar faces beloved by the public, who were incapable of lying. The fact that it was Elton John telling you that Bret looked as happy as Larry before he vanished, so couldn’t possibly done himself in, made it all somehow more believable. Noble, even. Bret’s death had been a tragic accident, we were told, a historic event, which would forever immortalise him in the annals of Hollywood history, like his predecessors James Dean, River Phoenix and Heath Ledger.
I cried for days. Almost as much as I had cried when my mother died. Almost, but not quite. I sat in my jim-jams all day watching his movies on repeat, eating Häagen-Dazs ice cream. I didn’t sleep. The brightness had been sucked out of everything. Inconsolable, I couldn’t even be bothered to attend the candle-lit vigil they were having for him at the O2.
The level of my grief took me by surprise. I scolded myself that I was behaving more like a love-struck teenager than a forty-something woman. Perhaps it was my lack of worldliness that had made me this way, or perhaps that my empty life had to be filled by something - I don’t know. Maybe I had never fully grown up. Or maybe a part of me was still that enamoured teenager that had gone to the cinema in 1983 and fallen irrevocably in love with a smoulderingly good-looking boy. Either way, the pain that I felt was very real and very dark and I could see no way out of it.
‘I loved him so much. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know how I’m gonna make it through without him.’
The female voice was soft and girly but articulated distinctly.
I glanced up at the TV. It was Maria Esposito giving a statement to journalists at a press conference. Her hair was immaculate, and she wore a dazzling red Versace dress. Her eyes were all smoky, her body lithe and erect.
‘We were going to be married,’ she wept. ‘The night before he died, he got down on one knee and proposed. When I said yes he told me I’d just made him the happiest guy alive. I miss him with all my heart. His light will never dim. The man’s a legend.’
My eyes narrowed.
Strange. I thought that what she was wearing was wildly inappropriate for mourning. There was also something about her that didn’t ring true, something that didn’t convince. Sure, she said and did all the right things, but her words sounded hollow, like she was reading from a script. There was no feeling there and the whole thing had a whiff of stage school about it.
She had never really loved him, I decided. For Maria Esposito, this was just another photo opportunity, another chance to put herself in the spotlight. She couldn’t have cared less about Bret. This vacuous, narcissistic creature had only ever loved one person – herself. But hey, that was showbiz for you.
No doubt her performance would no doubt add fuel to the many conspiracy theories that were already doing the rounds of the Internet. Since Bret’s disappearance, I had counted a total of thirty sites that were dedicated to the idea that he had staged his own death. The most popular blog, entitled bretvincentisnotdead.com, had at least a dozen postings of alleged ‘sightings.’ One of the most bizarre showed a man in dark glasses and a bad wig walking around a Walmart in Connecticut with a trolley full of Bret Vincent memorabilia. Another showed a man of possibly Chinese descent creeping out the back of a truck before mounting a horse and waving happily to the camera. The caption beneath read: Bret Vincent heads for Mexico. How anyone could mistake this person for Bret is beyond me.
There was also a blog by a guy calling himself Amadeus Kaufmann, who had written pages and pages about so-called hidden meanings in Bret’s films. In Intergalactic, for example, Amadeus argued that the scene where Bret’s character, Jett Starr lay dying and said, ‘Nothing ever dies, nothing ever ends, this is just the beginning,’ was prophetic. To me, it was a load of bullshit.
I had never been one for conspiracy theories. I knew why people needed them, though. They gave you something to believe in, gave you hope. Having lost both my parents, I knew that the only way to get over the death of a loved one was first to accept it, then to let it go. That was the only way. No amount of hoping was going to bring Bret Vincent back from the grave.
Chapter Three
The first time I became aware of my new neighbour was about a month after he’d moved in. The flat across the landing had been vacant for a while, but I hadn’t really noticed as I wasn’t in the habit of socializing with the other tenants. Falcon Mews contained six flats, two on each floor. In five years I hadn’t exchanged more than a passing hello with anyone. Everyone kept to themselves, which was the way I liked it.
The first time my path crossed with David Powell was on a Saturday afternoon. I was returning home from Tesco, laden with shopping bags, and struggling to find my house keys, when I suddenly became aware of a scruffy-looking man standing next to me. Silently, he reached past me and unlocked the door to the outer building. Then he stood aside and held it open for me.
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled.
We walked in single file up the two flights of stairs that led to the second floor. Then, without making eye contact, I stood with my back to him, still fumbling for my keys in my handbag.
Damn. Why on earth was it taking so long?
An uncomfortable silence hung between us, until finally, I heard his front door shut. I realised then that this was my new neighbour.
After that, I didn’t see him around for a couple of days. Then, on a Thursday evening, I returned home from work to find him sitting on the steps to the outer building, looking like he was waiting for someone. In his lap he cradled something that resembled a portfolio. As he saw me approaching, he stood up with an expectant smile on his face.
Now I got to look at him properly. He was aged between forty-five and fifty, five-foot ten in height, with bushy, sand-coloured hair and steel-rimmed spectacles. His nose was very large and very red, and he had wonky, discoloured teeth. The shabby tweed coat he wore, which looked like it had been bought in a charity shop, gave him the air of a kind of absent-minded professor. This observation was further enhanced when I heard him speak for the first time.
‘Oh good, you’ve come to my rescue.’ He had the deep, plummy voice of an old Etonian.
I didn’t return his smile. Not because I was unfriendly, but because I was hopeless at talking to strange men.
‘I’ve been stuck outside for twenty minutes,’ he continued. ‘I’ve rang on all the buzzers but no one’s answering. I’m sorry to be a pain, but do you have the landlord’s telephone number? I appear to have locked myself out.’
‘Sure,’ I said. Rummaging through my handbag, I took out my phone and handed it to him. ‘It’s under the name Jim.’
For the next few minutes, I stood watching this strange man pace up and down the street with my phone clamped to his ear. He didn’t sound too impressed with the answers Jim was giving him. ‘What do you mean forty minutes? But you only live down the road . . . Do you want me to come to you instead? What? No, okay . . . well it doesn’t sound like I’ve got any choice, does it?’ He snapped the phone shut and looked at me. ‘He says he’ll be forty minutes. Can you believe it? What am I going to do until then? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s my own silly fault for locking myself out.’
I nodded and put the phone back in my bag. Then I let us both inside the building, and he followed me up to the second floor, where he stood hesitantly outside my flat, like he wanted something.
‘Well, I’m sorry about what happened,’ I said. ‘I hope Jim doesn’t leave you standing out here for too long.’
He
smiled and shook his head. ‘I guess I’ll just have to sit here and wait it out.’
Poor thing.
I felt for him, I really did, but if he was expecting me to invite him in, he had another thing coming. After a stressful day at work, the last thing I wanted was to entertain a visitor. So I said goodbye and closed the door in his face.
For a couple of minutes, I roamed around my kitchen, checking I’d switched off the oven, generally straightening things up. Then, quite unexpectedly, I got a pang of conscience. I was being a bitch. Would it really kill me to give the poor devil a bit of hospitality?
When I got back to the landing I found him sitting crossed-legged with his back against his door. The portfolio was propped against the banister railings.
‘Do you fancy a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’
‘I thought you’d never ask!’
I showed him into my living room and asked him if he took milk and sugar.
‘Just milk. I’m trying to cut down on the sweet stuff.’ He patted his stomach, which had a little potbelly.
I smiled insipidly and left to boil the kettle. When I returned, I found him standing over by the wall, inspecting my shelf of DVDs. ‘I see you’re a real movie fan,’ he smirked. ‘My, what a wide and varied collection you’ve got.’
I frowned as I put the tray on the coffee table. Nearly all my films starred Bret Vincent. I wondered if he was taking the piss.
He sat back on the sofa. I poured the tea and handed him a cup.
‘Thanks. I’m not really much of a film man myself. Can’t remember the last time I went to the pictures. I’m more in to fine arts. Photography, Old Masters, that sort of thing.’