Bret Vincent is Dead

by Tanith Morse

  ‘Is that so?’ I smirked. ‘Okay, so tell me what you see.’

  David paused, apparently weighing up whether or not to say what was on his mind. ‘I see . . .’

  ‘What do you see?’ I asked impatiently.

  He dropped his shoulders, lay down his knife and fork on the table, as a sign to the waitress that we had finished. ‘I see . . . I see a woman in need of something sweet. Let’s ask for the dessert menu. Apparently they do a fantastic tiramisu here.’

  ‘No fair!’ I laughed. ‘You’ve chickened out.’

  David didn’t answer. He appeared distracted, like he was more interested in where the waitress had gone. Eventually she came and removed the dirty plates. David asked her for two espressos and the dessert menu. Then he turned and smiled indulgently at me.

  ‘David listen, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  I reached across the table, slipped my hand over his and looked him in the eyes, just as Beth had told me to. My fingers were shaking, but I knew there was no turning back now. I just had to go through with it, had to make him know what I was feeling. ‘There are a lot of things I haven’t told you about me, David. Things about my past that I’ve never shared with anyone. I want to be completely honest with you, to clear the air, so that there are no secrets between us.’ David nodded silently. I continued: ‘Before I met you, I had nothing. I didn’t have many friends . . . actually I don’t have any friends, except for you. And, well, this is so hard for me to talk about but . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ he said gently.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’m not thirty-six, I’m forty-one. I haven’t dated a guy in twenty-five years, I have bad credit, I’ll probably never be able to get a mortgage, and I’m actually a pretty hopeless scriptwriter. My mother wasn’t the only reason I didn’t go to film school. Actually, I failed the entrance exams. I just wasn’t good enough. I got a D in English Lit., and regularly suffer from writer’s block and to be honest, I’ve never actually completed a screenplay. Even the one I told you about, Jane Bloggs never got past the synopsis.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this, Madeline? Do you really think it will change how I see you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just so sick of pretending to be someone I’m not. This is me. This is Madeline Smith, warts and all. If you choose not to see me again, then fine, but at least I’ve given it to you straight. The truth is, these last few weeks I’ve spent without you have been the worst of my life. Not hearing from you, not seeing you - it made me realise just how much you mean to me, David. You’re the air that I breathe.’ I gulped, feeling increasingly emotional. ‘Now, I don’t know what your feelings are towards me . . . or, or what your intentions are, but I just want to say this: if it’s only friendship you’re after, then I can’t just be friends with you, okay? It’s hurting me too much to be so close to you . . . to care about you so much and not have this relationship lead anywhere. I’ve had so many disappointments in my life; I’m not getting any younger. I need someone I can rely on, someone who will always be there for me like I would be there for you. David, what I’m trying to tell you is that I love you. Okay? There – I’ve said it – I love you.’

  He fell silent, stared at me for a while. I swallowed painfully, trying to assess his reaction. His face was so placid, so unreadable; it was difficult to tell what he was thinking. Then, he took my hand and stroked it gently.

  ‘Darling, that was magnificent. I really don’t know what to say. I’m speechless . . .’ He looked so moved. And were those tears in his eyes? It was difficult to tell. ‘No one has ever been so honest with me before. It took a lot of guts, and I really respect you for that.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. So he didn’t hate me then. Thank God for that.

  David signalled to the waiter and ordered us a bottle of expensive champagne. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ he grinned, rubbing his hands together. There was a sparkle in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before, a hint of something mysterious.

  Soon, the waiter returned, popped open the champagne and poured us both a glass.

  ‘To honesty,’ David toasted.

  ‘To honesty,’ I said, downing the bubbly in three gulps. I had always been a bit of a lightweight, but champagne was the real killer for me. The bubbles always went straight to my head. By the time we’d finished the first bottle, I was away with the fairies. In fact, I was so intoxicated I didn’t notice that David hadn’t really touched any of his glass, and when he then ordered a second bottle, I was the sole recipient. By the time David called for the bill, everything had melded into a pleasant drunken haze.

  When the clock struck twelve to sire in the New Year we were treated to a gloriously inept rendition of Kool and the Gang’s Celebration by a group of drunken office workers who had decided to hijack the podium. I was just in the process of clambering up with them, when I felt a gentle tug at the hem of dress. I turned round, my eyes rolling maniacally.

  ‘Get down from there please,’ David said firmly. ‘I don’t want you making a fool of yourself in front of all these people.’

  I stumbled down from the podium. One of the lads cheered as he watched me collapse into David’s arms. With great difficulty, I pulled on my coat and followed him out the door.

  ‘Goodbye and Happy New Year!’ the waitress called after us.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ I slurred.

  ‘I think we should probably get a taxi,’ David smiled, picking me up from the floor for the second time. I was having serious trouble walking straight.

  ‘Whey! Come on England!’ I shouted, kicking an imaginary football in the air. Exploding in giggles, I started doing the can-can outside the restaurant, flashing my knickers at passers-by.

  ‘Oh God, stop that!’ David shouted. But I could see the trace of a smile on his lips.

  I smoothed down my dress, made an attempt to stand up straight. Then I put my finger in my mouth like a naughty schoolgirl to pacify him, but he was having none of it. All David wanted was us out of there – fast!

  Thankfully, within a couple of minutes, he managed to flag down a black cab, and we were on our way back toward Docklands. As we drove, I kept leaning over him, pointing and slurring the names of the landmarks we passed. David seemed to find my chaotic behaviour terribly amusing. He handled me with quiet firmness, allowing me to display a little craziness without doing anything too embarrassing.

  When we finally got back to his flat, I was smashed and ready for my bed. I stumbled into the living room, crashed out on the sofa and rolled from left to right, laughing uncontrollably. I’d always been a happy drunk, as David was now discovering.

  He went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of tap water. ‘I think you need to sober up a bit,’ he murmured.

  ‘I am sober,’ I giggled, taking the drink.

  David sat in the chair opposite and studied me for a minute or so. His face flickered with amusement. Then, he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.

  ‘Madeline, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  I took a sip of water and looked at him through inebriated eyes. ‘What is it?’ I laughed.

  He took the glass from me, clutched my hands in his. ‘You know you said we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other? Well, I’ve been keeping something from you that I think you should know.’

  A slow, lop-sided grin spread across my face. ‘Okay, what is it? You know you can tell me anything, right?’

  ‘I don’t know if I should.’

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport. I’ve told you everything about me, now it’s your turn. I’m sure whatever it is can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ He looked more nervous than I’d ever seen him before. Perhaps if I’d been sober, this would have worried me, but as it was, the alcohol had made me flippant enough not to care.

  ‘Out with it!’ I demanded.

  ‘I don’t know how to say this . . .’

  ‘O
h come on, come on. What is it? Don’t tell me you were born a woman?’

  ‘I wish it were that simple.’

  ‘Come on David, this is starting to get really boring. Don’t keep me in suspense. What on earth is it?’

  ‘My name isn’t David Powell. It’s Bret Vincent.’

  At first, what he’d said didn’t register. ‘Come again?’

  ‘I’m Bret Vincent.’

  ‘As in Bret Vincent the actor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I stared at him for a long time with a stupefied expression on my face. Then, I playfully punched his arm. ‘Get out of here! You’re having me on.’

  ‘I’m not, Madeline. I wouldn’t joke with you about something like this.’

  Ignoring him, I leaned back on the sofa, my legs akimbo, and downed the last of the water. ‘Another glass, Monsieur,’ I grinned, handing him back the cup.

  David wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was grim. ‘This is not a joke, Madeline. I really am Bret Vincent.’

  ‘How can you be Bret Vincent? Bret Vincent is dead, David. Everyone knows that. Stop pulling my leg, will you? Now be a dear and get me another glass of water, please.’

  ‘You’re not listening are you? Maybe now’s not the time to discuss this. I thought if I got you a bit merry, it’d be easier for you to take. But now I see you’re too out of it to appreciate what I’m telling you. I wish I hadn’t told you, now.’

  He got up, made for the kitchen. I grabbed his arm. ‘Darling, if you’re Bret Vincent, I’m Barack Obama.’

  ‘You’re really not taking this seriously, are you?’

  ‘If you really are Bret Vincent, then prove it. Prove it! Wave your magic wand, David, and make my prince appear.’

  He didn’t answer. He took my glass back to the kitchen, refilled it, handed it to me, and then disappeared into his bedroom. He was gone for ages. During his absence, I drifted in and out of consciousness. The champagne had really gone to my head, and I was dwelling in a strange netherworld that didn’t seem real.

  ‘Madeline . . .’

  ‘Huh?’

  I glanced up. In the doorway of the living room stood the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. A man with ruggedly handsome features and a thicket of lush brown hair, a man with a devastating smile, dreamy eyes and a washboard stomach, a man who had haunted my dreams night after night since girlhood. He was wearing the exact same clothes that David had worn, open at the chest, but he wasn’t David. No, the Adonis standing before me was Bret Vincent!

  ‘No way!’ I gawped. My body was frozen from shock. If this was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up. But if it wasn’t a dream then, well . . .

  Slowly, Bret walked over to me, knelt down, and took my hand. His palms felt warm and soft; his eyes incisive and clear.

  ‘Tell me I’m dreaming,’ I murmured. ‘Tell me it’s the booze, tell me you spiked it. This can’t be real. No way!’

  ‘This is real,’ he replied, ‘I am real. Touch me, Madeline.’

  Oh my God. His accent! That smooth, silky American accent I’d heard so many times on screen was now speaking directly to me. He placed my hand against his chest. I felt his heartbeat. This was too much. Too much!

  I looked up at the ceiling, muttered silent prayers. Then, I looked back at him. He was smiling at me now, his face benign, joyful. I snatched my hand away, trembling.

  I began pacing up and down the room. I couldn’t look at him. Dared not look at him. I was convinced I must have been hallucinating.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I’ve completely lost the plot. This isn’t real, can’t be real. I know it isn’t, it isn’t. I’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be a dream. Yes, that’s right, it’ll all be a dream. No way, no how am I standing here having a conversation with Bret Vincent.’

  Bret, David, or whatever his name was, looked very concerned by my behaviour. I was growing increasingly erratic – not a good look I’ll admit.

  ‘Listen, Madeline, I know this has come as a bit of a shock - ’

  ‘That’s a bloody understatement!’ I roared. The alcohol had made me bold, given me a level of courage I didn’t think I was capable of. It allowed me to voice what I was thinking and damn the consequences. I was convinced that this was all a dream – a mirage, a fantasy with no basis in reality. It had to be. Nothing else made sense.

  ‘I suppose you want an explanation,’ Bret murmured. ‘And who can blame you? You deserve one. So, I guess it’s best to start at the beginning...’ He spoke with an air of detachment, like he was reciting some other movie star’s biography from Wikipedia and not his own. He talked about his childhood in Minnesota - his parents, his brothers, the little house he grew up in. His mother Jen sounded like a typical showbiz mom - pushy, driven and very money-oriented. His father Kirk was a casual labourer with a violent temper and a drink problem.

  Bret explained his early rise to fame, his first foray into showbiz as a child model, and how he swiftly progressed from commercials to movies. He spoke of the strain of becoming his family’s chief breadwinner at the age of just twelve, of his parent’s bitter custody battle when he was sixteen (which he suspected was fuelled more by who would gain control of his finances, rather than for love of him). He spoke of questioning his whole existence when he was nineteen, of taking drugs to relieve the malaise caused by early stardom, and wondering if he had what it took to make the transition from child star to king of Hollywood. He talked of his loneliness, his crippling insecurities as an actor, and wondering whether people were really interested in him or his fame. He found it particularly difficult, he said, to forge relationships with women because he often questioned their motives – was it him or the money they were after? Having been a star from such an early age meant that he had never really associated with people who were not aware of his fame, not aware of his larger than life status in the world.

  When Bret had finished talking, he looked at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I said nothing. I was still too shocked to speak.

  ‘I suppose I should explain about David too. You know, Madeline, it’s very difficult for me to put into words exactly how I came to be in this situation. What started out as something so simple has grown into something much bigger. Huge in fact, out of control. But, well, I’ll try my best to help you understand.’

  Bret stood up and started walking around the room. His voice was quiet and calm. He started by explaining to me his relationship with Panikkos Panteli (or Pani as he was affectionately known). He said they had been friends since the mid ‘90s when Pantelli had served as executive producer on a number of his films. In the elite crowds they moved in, the billionaire was a keen gambler known for making outlandish bets. For instance, in 1998 Pantelli had wagered a business rival fifty thousand dollars that Elvis would resurface before the new millennium. Obviously he lost the bet, but that wasn’t the point. Pantelli’s motto in life was that nothing was impossible, and often used his own rags to riches tale to demonstrate this. Born into poverty, Pantelli had turned a humble cleaning business into a multi-billion dollar empire famous for its string of luxury hotels. Bret said the billionaire was bombastic by nature, a larger than life character who took great pleasure in rubbing his detractors’ noses in his success.

  He then went on to explain in meticulous detail exactly what had happened that night on the yacht. He said the party had started out like any other – the usual shallow gossip, posturing, mingling. Then Maria had thrown one of her diva tantrums, accusing him of flirting with one of the other guests. After a heated argument, during which she had thrown a glass at his head, Bret had gone off to cool down. Gazing out at the dark night sky and sipping his favourite Martini, he had started to contemplate a life without Maria. A life out of the spotlight.

  Presently, he was joined up deck by Pantelli. The two men talked about the highs and lows of Bret’s film career, and Pantelli said it was a crime that he hadn’t yet won an Oscar. Bret joked that the only sure way for an actor to secure an Oscar was to die and win
it posthumously. This throwaway comment had caught the billionaire’s imagination. Pantelli then speculated that early death enhanced one’s celebrity in a way that no amount of expensive PR could do. Bret agreed, citing James Dean and Marilyn Monroe as examples. With a devilish gleam in his eye, Pantelli then asked Bret outright if he’d ever consider faking his own death to test out this theory.

  At first Bret had laughed it off, thinking his friend was just fooling around. But, the more Pantelli pushed the idea, the more it started to intrigue him. Was it really conceivable for someone of Bret’s profile just to disappear off the face of the earth? Where would he go, what would he do? He asked Pantelli as much, to which the billionaire stated that not only did he believe it was possible, he was willing to assist him in any way possible to prove it. It was at this point that what Bret invariably described as an extreme PR stunt combined with a social experiment came into being.

  Late into the night, the two men continued to discuss the possiblities, during which they agreed the following: the con would work on two levels: first to prove Pantelli’s Oscar theory, and secondly to test Bret’s skills as an actor. He would use the opportunity to take his method acting to a whole new level – go out into the world, assume a new idenitity, become someone else, live among ordinary people. If Bret could pull this off successfully, it would be the greatest performance of his life. His magnum opus. And so, the seed for David Powell was planted.

  At around four am Pantelli arranged for Bret to be smuggled discreetly off the yacht by one of his assistants (the man who had approached us in the salsa bar). Bret was then transported to one of the billionaire’s properties in Sardinia where he laid low while the whole world searched for him. It was here that a team of make-up artsists created the prosthetics and body suit for David Powell. For days, he worked to perfect the quirky mannerisms of his bizarre creation – the walk, the voice, the back history. Bret said the easiest part to fake was the British accent, which he had perfected years earlier whilst playing Reith Winchester in the Chronicals of Sherlock Holmes. Then, about two weeks after his ‘death’ Pantelli flew him out on a private jet to the UK, where Bret was given meagre accomodation and a fake ID.