by Tanith Morse
‘I love how much you love food,’ he smirked. ‘Maria never ate anything but brown rice and nuts. It used to drive me nuts.’ He flashed his tongue at me.
We both laughed uproariously.
Chapter Nineteen
We didn’t go out for three days. On Monday morning I called into work sick. Bret and I couldn’t get enough of each other, and he had forbidden me from leaving the flat. I was his willing prisoner, his captive audience. We spent most of the time making love, watching TV, sipping Dom Perignon, getting take-outs and talking. Now that I had got my mojo back, I found that I had enough stamina to go the full distance during our marathon sessions. I did anything he wanted me to – no request was too dirty or risqué for me; I was dedicated to one thing only – pleasing him no matter what.
Life with Bret over those days was blissful. Exciting. Unpredictable. I never knew what was coming next. For example, one morning I arrived in his flat to find a note stuck to the fridge door: Take your clothes off, then go to the bedroom.
I glanced around, almost like I expected to find an invisible audience behind me. The whole place was eerily quiet except for the rapid beating of my heart. There was no sign of Bret anywhere. I walked into the hallway, called out to him. There was no answer.
Tentatively, I padded towards the bedroom and started undressing. My jeans. My t-shirt. My pumps. I found another note pinned to the dresser mirror. Lie on the bed and wait.
Pensively, I lay down on the bed, got myself comfortable and stared up at the ceiling. My hair lay loose around by face and shoulders like an auburn halo. Where was Bret and what did he have in store for me?
I closed my eyes, breathed in, breathed out. My mind wandered over the possibilities. Then the door opened and Bret walked in. He was completely naked and in his hand he carried a silk blindfold. I started to get excited. He looked so bronzed and gorgeous; so divine, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming.
Bret stood motionless by the door, staring at me like he was deep in thought. Then, he walked to the bed, leaned over me, raised me up slightly and secured the blindfold around my head. He then eased me back against the pillows and assured me that I was in safe hands.
‘Do you trust me?’ he whispered seductively.
‘Yes.’
The suspense was killing me. Being blindfolded was such an exhilarating experience. It heightened my sensitivity, made me aware of the slightest touch, the slightest sound.
Suddenly I heard a low rattling noise, like marbles hitting glass. I caught me breath. What on earth could that be? The noise continued and seemed to be getting closer and closer. I shuddered as I felt a freezing cold ice cube at the tip of my navel. Slowly, sensuously, it worked its way up my stomach, sending tingles of consternation through my body. I felt a mixture of nervousness and excitement.
Then Bret softly blew on the trail of icy water, caressing my body with his fingers as he went. The contrast between hot and cold was the most amazing feeling. Then he pressed down on me and covered my mouth, throat, stomach, breasts and thighs in kisses. I let out a low groan of satisfaction.
‘Tell me what you want,‘ he murmured. ‘I’ll do anything. Anything. Nothing is taboo. Just say the word.’
I flushed with embarrassment. I was still shy about vocalising my desires, didn’t quite know how to articulate my most salacious thoughts.
‘Well . . .?’ he purred.
‘Er, why don’t you surprise me?’ I giggled.
Bret lifted his hot body off me and disappeared from the room. Straightaway I heard the sound of cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen. Eventually, he returned. Something round and fleshy was pushed into my mouth. Something sweet and tangy. A strawberry. I savoured the flavour with my tongue. Bret fed me another, and another, till I had strawberry juice drizzling all down my cheeks and throat. Then, he placed a strawberry in my navel and ate it. His lips felt so warm and soft.
Bret’s hands continued to wander, skilfully massaging my body with artistic subtlety. ‘Have you ever had a tantric massage?’ he whispered suddenly.
‘Uh-uh. What’s that?’
He breathed in deeply and exhaled loudly. ‘It’s all about awakening your inner goddess. About worshipping you like to deserve to be worshipped . . . making a connection.’
I didn’t know what the heck he was on about, but whatever it was sounded good, so I lay still. Bret fell silent, like he was meditating, then slowly, he started running his hands over my body again. Massaging every inch of me with sweet smelling oil – even the tips of my fingers. It was such an intimate, such a divine, almost spiritual feeling. I had never experienced anything quite like it.
As Bret continued to work my body, he explained what he was doing; how each particular technique was releasing my sexual energy – my ‘chakras.’ He started using a lot of Eastern jargon that I didn’t understand. Apparently my privates were called a ‘Yoni’ and his were a ‘Lingam.’ If I hadn’t been so turned on, I probably would have burst out laughing. But as it was, Bret held me mesmerised. He knew he had me in the palm of his hand.
After a while, his hands travelled to my Yoni and with his thumb and forefinger, he began to massage it. Gently at first, then gradually applying more pressure. It all started to get too much for me. I cried out. Once, very loudly. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. No, he continued, taking me to levels of pleasure I didn’t think possible. Then, slowly, he started to fuck me, working his hips with a combination of delicacy and fury, never letting himself get too carried away by his desire. He wanted to prolong my pleasure for as long as possible. This was a man who knew exactly how to take a woman to the precipice of ecstasy yet leave her still begging for more.
‘You’re like a female version of me,’ he said, as we lay basking in the mutual delirium of our last orgasm. ‘You’re insatiable, do you know that?’
I giggled and nuzzled my head into his chest.
‘No really,’ he continued, ‘I can’t get enough of you. It’s like you’re a drug I’m addicted to.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel about you.’
‘Is it really?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Good.’
I hesitated. ‘Bret?’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you ever thought about what you’re gonna do next? I mean, are you gonna stay here forever, or do you plan to go back to your . . . to your old life?’
Bret moodily pondered this question. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I suppose I’ll have to put in an appearance at some point, just to let everyone know I’m okay. And anyway, it’s just not practical for me to go on living this way.’
I managed to mask my rising emotions. ‘What do you mean “not practical?”’
‘Well for one thing, there’s my financial situation. I can’t access any of my money and have to rely on Pani for everything. I’m on his payroll until I bring Bret Vincent back from the dead.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I mean, Pani has control over every aspect of my life. Even this apartment belongs to him.’
‘What?’ I raised my head. ‘Panikkos Pantelli owns these flats?’
‘Yeah, and about a dozen other penthouses in Canary Wharf. He’s got properties all over the world. How did you think I ended up living here? You didn’t think it was a coincidence? Pani sorted out everything – the apartment, my cameras - everything. I owe him a lot, he’s been awesome. He’s the one that made this all possible . . .’ Bret’s voice trailed off. There was an air of uncertainty in his voice. I wondered if things were as great between him and Pani and as he made out.
‘So do you trust him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you trust him not to betray you?’
‘Of course I trust him. Pani’s got as much to lose as me if the truth ever came out.’ Bret lapsed into a brooding silence.
I traced invisible shapes on his chest with my fingers. ‘Have you thought about what you’ll t
ell people when you do decide to come back from the dead?’
A broad smile crossed his face. ‘I’ve given that a lot of thought too. I was thinking maybe I’d say that I lost my memory. That I’ve been living on a desert island all this time, waiting for it all to come back to me.’
‘Do you think the media will buy that?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. It doesn’t sound believable.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ There was a note of irritation in his voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I said gently, ‘it’s difficult to say cos I’ve never been in that situation. Have you and Pani thought about the legal implications of faking your own death? I mean, surely you must have broken some kind of law by withholding the truth from the public?’ I cast my mind back to a similar case I’d read a few years back about a man who had faked his own death to cash in on a life insurance policy. When his scheme had inevitably unravelled he’d been sentenced to seven years in prison. My heart suddenly grew fearful for Bret.
‘Then again,’ I continued brightly, ‘I suppose there was no money involved, so technically, you wouldn’t be in all that much trouble. And of course, it happened in Sardinia, so it would depend on what the laws are there.’
‘Of course there’s money involved!’ Bret snapped, pulling away from me. ‘I have at least three sponsorship deals - Pepsi, Martini and Omega. Then there’s the two movies my agent signed me up for in the fall. Believe me Madeline, there was a hell of a lot at stake when I decided to go through with this. A lot of people are gonna be baying for my blood if I ever do make a come-back. And yes, it’s stressing me out no end, so I don’t need you to remind me, okay? Damn! I thought you were supposed to be lightening my mood.’
I was shocked by the anger in his voice. Terrified I’d upset him, I desperately tried to back track. ‘Forgive me darling, I didn’t mean it to come across as a lecture. It’s just . . . I care so much about you, I only want to help you find a solution, that’s all.’
He smiled and drew me back into his arms. ‘I know, baby, I know. And in a way, maybe it’s good we’re speaking about this now.’
I paused, thinking. ‘I know! Why don’t you say you had a nervous breakdown and needed to take some time out? That way, you’d be partly telling the truth, and at the same time diminish responsibility for your actions. You could say you went travelling, stayed in a monastery . . .’
Bret chuckled. ‘That’s pretty good. See, I told you you’re gonna be a terrific scriptwriter.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘It’s a good idea, but kind of similar to my desert island story.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I snorted indignantly. ‘My story is more plausible because it doesn’t involve pretending you’ve lost your memory. I mean, come on! That’s so corny, Bret. At least my idea has a ring of truth to it.’
He stroked my hair affectionately. ‘Okay, okay, you win. Your idea is better. Thank you.’ He paused. ‘But the truth is, if I’m being honest, I didn’t really think any of this through properly. It did it to see if I could get away with it, but, well, I guess we took the gag too far. Pani still wants to go all the way to the Oscars with this, but I’m not sure I can hold out that long.’
‘Do you really think you’ll win Best Actor?’
‘I don’t know. And to be honest, I don’t care any more. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like raising myself from the dead.’
There was a second-long silence.
‘Can I ask you something, Bret?’
‘Sure.’
‘You know those earrings you bought for me . . .’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, er, they’re not real diamonds are they?’
He didn’t miss a beat. ‘I can’t believe you’d even ask me that. Of course they are. They’re antiques worth in the region of, oh let me see . . . a million dollars.’
‘What! Oh my God, you’re kidding me?’
‘That’s right - a million dollars.’
‘No way! So that time I dropped one in the salsa bar . . . oh God, no wonder you were so frantic!’ I laughed maniacally. ‘A million dollars . . . a million dollars. I can’t believe it.’
‘Believe it baby. You’re worth it.’
I almost fainted from shock.
* * *
Later that evening Bret told me he had booked us a table at a jazz club in Covent Garden. Stretching my arms out luxuriously, I propped myself up on the pillows and watched Bret’s naked form in the gathering twilight, as he moved around the bedroom like he was playing blind man’s buff or something. He got to my wardrobe, opened it and began sifting through my clothes.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just looking through your dresses to see what you can wear out tonight.’
I smiled tremulously. I thought it was really sweet of him to be taking such an interest. I was also very curious to know what he’d pick out.
‘Ah . . . this one’s just right.’
I craned my neck. ‘Which one is it? Let me see, let me see!’
‘Ta-da!’ Bret turned round and held up a beautiful black vintage dress that I’d never seen before. It was made out of a tight, lacy material and had a fitted ‘50s style waist.
‘Oh my gosh!’ I gasped. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Bret. But I don’t understand, where did you . . .?’
‘Told you I like to surprise you,’ he grinned. ‘Come on, try it. I want to see how it looks on you.’
Excitedly, I clambered out of bed and switched on the bedside lamp to cast more light in the room. Bret drew me towards him and proceeded to dress me. He put my arms in the sleeves, zipped me up at the back, fastened the belt, and then turned me round to face the wardrobe mirror. He put his head over my shoulder as we both studied our reflection. His face was ridiculously gorgeous.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ he growled.
‘I love it, Bret. But how did you know which size to get? I mean, this fits me like a glove.’
‘Don’t you think I know every inch of you?’ he whispered seductively. Slowly, he traced the contours of my breasts through the material with his fingers. Licked my ear, kissed my neck.
A shiver ran through me.
Bret released his grip. ‘All right, lets get this party started!’ He picked up his box of David disguises and disappeared into the bathroom to get ready. I sat on the edge of the bed deliberating how to wear my hair tonight. Probably up, I decided, as it would go better with the ‘50s glamour of the dress.
About an hour later, Bret emerged from the bathroom as David Powell. It was so surreal seeing him again, like meeting an old friend. I kept shaking my head, trying to come to terms with how incredible this situation was.
‘Do you like me better as Bret or David?’ he asked quietly.
I smiled up at him from the bed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, you must have a preference.’
I didn’t answer. It was the first time I’d ever really given it much thought. To be honest, I didn’t know what answer to give. In a way, I loved them both equally.
Bret glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve booked our table for eight o’clock so we’d better start going.’
It felt strange walking arm in arm with him along Poplar Docks towards the Tube station. A weird mixture of excitement and apprehension. I was so paranoid, so scared that everyone we passed in the street could see through Bret’s disguise. That they could see I had a date with the world’s most famous dead movie star. I said as much to Bret, but he just laughed it off with a shrug. He said he liked the danger. Liked the fact that we had this big secret that no one else was in on.
Things grew even more bizarre when we got on the Tube. Sitting next to each other holding hands, I couldn’t help but gaze round at all the other passengers, wondering what their reactions would be if they knew who they were sharing a carriage with. It was almost too exciting for words.
We got to C
ovent Garden at quarter to eight. It had rained while we had been underground. When we resurfaced the air had a cool chill to it. The jazz club was a five-minute walk from Covent Garden station, located down one of the busy side streets.
Bret said he loved the West End at night because it gave him a buzz, made him feel like he was part of something, part of a nocturnal tribe of Londoners.
The club was called Lucio’s and had a small, inconspicuous entrance sandwiched between Oasis and an expensive looking watch shop. We walked down a flight of stairs, crossed through a deeply carpeted foyer and entered a stylish club area. The place was moderately busy. By the far end of the room was a small stage where a jazz band was playing a sultry version of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.
A smartly dressed waiter greeted us and showed us to a table near the stage. After he’d taken our coats, Bret ordered drinks. Wine for me, a martini for him.
‘This place looks really nice,’ I said, glancing round. ‘How do you always find such nice places to take me?’
‘I Googled it under “great places to take Madeline Smith.”’
I laughed, tucked a stray hair behind my ear. Looked towards the stage. ‘This music’s really good. You won’t believe this, but I’ve never been anywhere that plays live music before.’
‘What, not even a concert?’
‘No. This is so exciting for me.’
‘Do you like jazz music?’
‘Oh yes, I love it. Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats.’
A brief smile crossed Bret’s lips. Then he reached across the table, put his strong, clean hands over mine. Inwardly I was jumping up and down for joy.
‘Happy?’ he asked.
‘Ecstatically, darling.’ I smiled shyly, looked away from him.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Am I everything you dreamed I would be? I mean, I haven’t disappointed you, have I?’
‘No, no of course not Bre – sorry, I mean David. You have no idea how much I . . .’ I broke off. Words couldn’t quite express the magnitude of my feelings.
‘I understand,’ he grinned, patting my hand reassuringly. Then he shot me a seductive sideways glance. ‘By the way, I love the way you wear that body.’