Bret Vincent is Dead

by Tanith Morse

  ‘Have you ever had an Indian head massage?’ he purred.

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  David started to apply more pressure, the sensation growing more intense with every caress. I felt completely intoxicated. Tilting my head back, I lost control and inadvertently let out a strange low growling noise.

  Suddenly, everything stopped. I opened my eyes, burning with embarrassment. I had forgotten myself.

  David looked very pleased as he returned to man the camera. ‘I bet you’d scream the house down,’ he teased.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.

  ‘Right,’ he said, repositioning the lamps. ‘Head straight, eyes in this direction. Don’t worry, Madeline, just be yourself, okay? I won’t bite.’

  I stared into the lens.

  ‘Look, there’s a white elephant.’

  ‘What white -’

  Flash!

  ‘Gotcha!’ he grinned. ‘And again . . .’

  ‘What white elephant?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘There isn’t one. I just wanted to get that faraway look in your eyes. It’s absolutely priceless.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He took a couple more snaps and then unclipped the camera from the tripod. ‘That was great, Madeline. Really great. Now, do you want to take a look at how they turned out?’

  I nodded eagerly. I still felt slightly dazed from the massage.

  David took the camera to his laptop that was lying on the sofa. In no time at all, he had loaded the pictures onto Photoshop and started messing around with the visual effects.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I ran a critical eye over the numerous demure expressions staring back at me from the laptop screen. I had to admit that the ‘white elephant’ trick had worked a treat. These were the best photos of me I’d ever seen. I still thought my nose looked a bit big in some of them, but overall, I was happy with the result.

  ‘Yeah, I love them,’ I gushed.

  ‘Good. If you’ve got a memory stick, I can make you copies.’

  ‘Really? That’s so kind of you.’

  David got up. ‘Right, now, let’s try some of that delectable cake of yours. I’ve been simply dying to have a slice.’

  He went to the kitchen. I heard a lot of moving around, scraping, plates clattering, cupboards opening and closing.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  ‘No, no, you’re my guest. Just stay put.’

  When he returned, he was holding a tray with two slices of cake. He handed me one and took a place next to me on the sofa.

  I watched intently as he sank his teeth into the rich, crumbly sponge. He chewed vigorously, clearly savouring the flavour.

  ‘Hmm, this is delicious,’ he said, between mouthfuls. ‘Very moist.’ I smiled as David put particular emphasis on the word ‘moist’.

  I took a bite from my own slice. It was indeed a fine piece of cake. The Tia Maria had blended to perfection with the sponge, which had just the right texture. I was elated.

  ‘It’s got alcohol in it, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Just a dash,’ I winked.

  I continued to chew, gazing stoically into the distance.

  ‘How’s your sister? Beth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’

  ‘She seemed really nice, in a manic sort of way.’

  I giggled. ‘Have you got any siblings?’

  ‘A brother. He lives in Canada. Haven’t spoken to him in years.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m not.’

  I glanced down at his feet. It was the first time I had noticed that he wasn’t wearing any slippers. The socks he wore today were an abysmal green colour, with the customary hole in the big toe. But, more importantly, there was no smell. I felt extremely relieved about this. It was yet another plus to add to my glowing appraisal of him.

  ‘So Madeline, tell me more about yourself.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, let’s start with where you work. You say you work for the council. What exactly do you do there?’

  I hesitated. ‘I work in a call centre. Parking fines, traffic appeals, that sort of thing. Not particularly interesting.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s very interesting. Why don’t you think it’s interesting?’

  ‘Because it’s not fun and glamorous like what you do.’

  ‘Do you think my job is always fun?’ David laughed sardonically. ‘Of

  course not. Between all the glamour and excitement there are deadly lulls. Sometimes its months before I get a new assignment, and then I wish I had regular job, a nine to five. Trust me, Madeline, no job is perfect.’

  I nodded, feeling a little better. ‘I guess so. I never thought of it that way before.’

  ‘So, tell me more about your job in the call centre. You must get loads of irate customers.’

  ‘Yeah, we do. It can be an absolute nightmare sometimes. I just want to tear my hair out. But, I guess I’m sort of used to it now. When you’ve been there for as long as I have, it all becomes part of the routine, you know? And there are days when you do get the odd nice customer. Someone who’s grateful we haven’t towed their car away.’

  David sniggered. ‘How long have you worked there for?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny, I wouldn’t have put you as someone to work in such a confrontational environment. Nasty job, parking tickets. How did you get into it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well I didn’t go to school thinking, “When I grow up I want to work in a call centre.” It just sort of happened, you know? Life does that to people. It never turns out quite as you plan.’

  He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. There were still little specs of cream on his chin. I thought this was kind of sweet. ‘So,’ David continued, ‘what did you want to be when you were growing up?’

  I suddenly went all coy. ‘I was really into writing. I loved English. I wanted to be a scriptwriter, go to film school, the whole shebang. I really wanted to be somebody.’

  I felt his eyes on me now, watching, scrutinizing. ‘So why didn’t you pursue your dream? Why didn’t you go to film school?’

  I rested my hands in my lap and stared blankly at one of the pictures on the wall. ‘My mother got sick. It was really difficult trying to juggle it all. Studying and caring for her, I mean. I had to get my priorities right, and, in the end, family came first.’

  ‘But surely Beth could have helped? Surely it wasn’t left just down to you to carry all that baggage on your own?’

  I shrugged again. ‘Beth had her own issues to deal with. It just seemed like the right thing for me to do. I don’t regret it. When my father died, Mum was all alone. I was all she had. I couldn’t just leave her.’

  ‘Your mother . . . is she better now?’

  Tears clawed at my throat. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ David reached over and put his hand on mine. Once again, I marvelled at how soft it was. I looked at him. There was something so familiar about his eyes, something that I couldn’t place, like fragments from a long forgotten dream.

  ‘So, what’s stopping you now?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What’s stopping you from following your dream of becoming a script-writer?’

  ‘Well, it just isn’t practical, is it? I mean, how would I live? How would I eat? I’ve got bills to pay, credit card debts, rent to pay. I can’t survive on thin air.’

  ‘You’re being way too pessimistic, Madeline. True, most writers can’t afford the clothes on their back, but if you did make it big, if you did get that big break, if you did get that elusive chance at fame, all the sacrifices you made would have been worth it.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a very big “if”.’

  ‘So what? Better to do something you love then spend a life filled with regret. Try being more spontaneous, Madeline; you mi
ght be surprised by the results.’

  I gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s easy for you to say, but the reality is, I just can’t. I’m not a teenager. I’ve got to think sensibly about my future.’

  ‘And be sensibly unhappy?’ He let go of my hand and jammed the final wedge of cake into his mouth. ‘How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘Pah! You’re still young. Plenty of time for a career change.’

  ‘I don’t feel that young anymore. Since the age of sixteen I’ve been trying to regress back to my childhood. I feel like I can’t cope with being an adult. Sometimes there are just so many demands, so many expectations from me, I wonder if I’m really cut out for it.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You looked after your mother, didn’t you? That sounds like it took a lot of maturity - to stand by and put someone you love before yourself. You must have had to grow up fast.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ I swallowed hard. The tears were rising again. ‘I just feel like life’s just passing me by, like I’m stuck on this conveyor-belt and can’t get off. God, I feel so trapped sometimes.’

  I couldn’t believe how candid I was being. But somehow I felt I could tell him anything. Share my innermost thoughts. They say it’s easier to talk about your problems with a stranger than those close to you, so perhaps that was the case with David. There was something benign in his countenance, the ability to listen and not to judge.

  David shook his head. ‘We all feel trapped at times. But, as my therapist says, there really are no boundaries to what a person can do. With enough focus, with enough determination, you can break free from your self-made prison.’

  I smiled meekly. David was starting to sound a bit like one of those cheesy self-help manuals. Still, I found it rather endearing how supportive he was being. At least he took me seriously and didn’t trample on my ambitions, as Beth had done so many times in the past.

  David got up. ‘Do you fancy a refill?’ He pointed to my empty glass.

  ‘No thanks, I really shouldn’t.’ I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock. My, how the time had flown. ‘I should be going. I’ve got to be up early for work.’

  ‘What time do you leave in the mornings?’

  ‘Half seven.’

  I stood. He followed me to the door. I hesitated, trying to prolong the moment for as long as possible.

  ‘Well Madeline, it’s been a lovely evening. And thanks again for the cake.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

  I watched as he unlatched the door. He seemed reluctant, almost like he didn’t want me to go. Or was that just my imagination?

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said cheerily, ‘do you fancy going to the cinema this Friday? I was thinking of catching a movie in Greenwich, nothing major.’ I tried to make it sound as casual as possible. Inside, I was quaking at the prospect of a rejection. Had I overstepped the mark?

  David paused. ‘Friday . . . hmm, let me see, let me see. What have I got on . . . Yes, Friday’s good for me. What time are you planning to go?’

  ‘Um, not sure yet. I’ll have to check out the show times.’

  ‘Do you have any particular film in mind?’

  Everybody Loves Sid had just been released, and I was dying to see it. But I wasn’t about to mention this to David. It was far too early in our relationship for me to unleash my obsession with Bret Vincent on him. That would have to come later.

  ‘Er, no,’ I replied with an air of nonchalance, ‘I don’t know what’s out. But I’m sure we’ll find something.’

  ‘Well, as you know, I’m not much of a film man, so I’ll let you decide.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. If you’d rather not come . . .’

  ‘No of course I’ll come. Friday it is. Shall I pick you up about seven?’

  ‘Perfect! See you then.’

  I smiled all the way back to my flat.

  Chapter Six

  Friday morning got off to a bad start. The sky outside was grey like a heron. Then it started to rain, perhaps an omen of the nightmare ahead.

  I had an interview with Angela Towner for the management position at nine-thirty. I wasn’t generally a suit person, preferring to languish in baggy jumpers and ankle-length skirts, but today I had decided to make a special effort with my appearance. I had gone to Marks and Spencer’s in Oxford Street and purchased a nicely tailored skirt suit. It was navy blue and fitted me like a glove. I liked M&S sizes. There, a 16 really was a 16 and made allowances for women with a bum.

  At quarter past seven, I was ready to go. I checked myself out in the full-length mirror and, satisfied that I looked the part, grabbed my keys, my handbag and my phone. Before locking up, I made sure that the iron, strengtheners and gas cooker were switched off. I was a bit obsessive compulsive about stuff like that. I had a terrible phobia of coming home to a burnt-out flat. In fact, things had got so bad that I now actually factored in an extra fifteen minutes each day to run these checks, so that I wouldn’t be late for work.

  I got to Blackwall DLR station at quarter to eight. As usual, the platform was packed full of commuters heading into central London. Some mornings it was so crowded that I had to wait for a couple of trains to pass before I could actually get on. Luckily, that wasn’t the case today. I managed to get on the first train to Bank, although, as always, I was forced to stand.

  The next few stops passed without incidence, until we got to Shadwell and a strange old lady got on. She reeked of piss and carried all her worldly possessions in a portable shopping trolley. The stench was cloying to the nostrils, and I was fighting a terrible urge to be sick. A couple of the other passengers were trying not to look at her, trying to pretend that the decrepit old bag lady wasn’t there. But she was. And no amount of wishful thinking was going to make her disappear. That’s one of great the things about London: anything goes - even a half-naked man in a ladies’ thong would barely merit a second glance on the Tube.

  However, one little boy with his mother wasn’t so charitable. He was like the kid from The Emperors’ New Clothes: keen to voice what the adults left unspoken.

  ‘Mummy, why does that woman stink so much? Mummy, she’s gross, I’m going to be sick.’

  Stifling a smirk, I turned and looked out the steamed-up window.

  When the train finally arrived at Bank, I disembarked and made my way to the Northern Line, which was even more crowded than Blackwall. I had to fight to get to the front of the platform, and then I glanced up at the electronic timetable. Two minutes until the next train. When it finally thundered in, a surge of bodies pushed into me, making me lose my footing. It was on days like this that I loathed humanity, loathed the fact that I had to share such a confined space with all these annoying, clawing vultures.

  The carriage doors opened. Five people pushed ahead of me.

  The voice on the Tannoy blared: ‘This train is now ready to depart, mind the closing doors.’ Cursing under my breath, I lunged forward and managed to make it through just in time. Then to my embarrassment, I found that I was caught between the doors.

  ‘Help me out!’ I squealed, trying desperately to yank myself free.

  A young Indian man rushed to my assistance and started pushing me back onto the platform.

  ‘No, I mean help me in, help me in!’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sorry.’ He gripped my arm, pulled me through to safety. The doors momentarily opened and closed again. Now the bloody hem of my skirt was caught! With every ounce of strength, I wrenched myself free. There was a terrible ripping sound. I glanced down. The bottom half of my skirt was completely torn off. Red-faced and bitter, I skulked into a corner and tried to obscure the tear. There were a few titters from the other passengers. I was absolutely mortified.

  My journey to work couldn’t be over fast enough. When at last I arrived at my destination, I was in one of my blackest moods ever. As I approached the top of the escalators, I looked down at my skirt. The scraggy hem was now trailing just a
bove my knees. There was no way I could wear this thing to the interview.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock. Exactly thirty minutes to get myself together. I surveyed the half empty street. Most of the shops had only just opened but sadly, there wasn’t an M&S in the area so I would have to buy my replacement from elsewhere.

  I walked in great strides until I came to the indoor market on the corner. Most of the stuff there was cheap tat, but on the odd occasion you came across a real bargain. After a brief look around, I settled for a dark navy pencil skirt that the peroxide blonde stallholder insisted was a size 14-16. I had my doubts, but now was not the time to be choosey.

  I paid up then hurried across the road to work. My interview was being held on the second floor of Walton House, a six storey building which, in addition to Parking Services, housed Human Resources and the Council Tax admin. team. I raced through reception and got the lift up to the designated floor. Then, I dived into the ladies’ toilets to change. The new skirt felt a bit tight around the waist but it would have to do. The other majorly annoying thing was that it kept riding up, one of the features of pencil skirts I’d always detested. I had to keep pulling it down, which made me feel very self-conscious.

  Finally, at exactly nine-thirty, I staggered into the kitchen area where the other applicants were waiting to be called in. I took a seat and surveyed the room. Someone nodded at me. There were five of us in total, all familiar faces from the call centre. Not surprising really, considering the post had only been advertised in our department. As far as I knew, ten of us had been short-listed - five to be seen today and five on Monday. The interview was to be conducted in two parts: a group exercise in the morning and a one to one with Angela in the afternoon. I was dreading both.

  One of the girls, Sabina, glanced at her watch and gave a toothy grin. ‘They’re running a bit late aren’t they? It’s nearly twenty to.’

  ‘Who cares?’ the guy sitting next to her, Barry, answered, ‘at least it gets us off the phones. If you ask me, they can take as long as they want.’