by Tanith Morse
Bret Vincent is Dead
By Tanith Morse
Bret Vincent is Dead
Tanith Morse
First Edition
Copyright Tanith Morse 2011
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form. This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
For Mum and Dad
Wikipedia
Bret Vincent (born November 25, 1970) is an American actor, film director, producer, and screenwriter. He is best known for playing offbeat, eccentric characters such as Corey Turnbull in American Boy, Reith Winchester in The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes and Jett Starr in Intergalactic. In the industry he is nicknamed the “chameleon” for his brand of method acting which includes employing whatever extreme tactic he feels is necessary to achieve the most authentic performance. For example, during the filming of Adelaide in Paris, he learnt to speak fluent French.
Vincent rose to prominence in the mid ‘80s in the teen dramas My Brother Daryl (1984) and The Boyfriend (1986). He became something of a matinee idol and soon started attracting a variety of leading roles in films such as The Long Summer (1989) Grace is Getting Married (1991) and Johnny Come Lately (1995) where he first teamed with long-term collaborator Robert Levy.
Films featuring Vincent have grossed over $3 billion at the United States box office and over $7 billion worldwide. Nominated for the Screen Actors Guild Awards three times and Golden Globe Awards six times, his personal fortune is estimated at over $200 million. Vincent's humanitarian work includes his advocacy of finding a resolution for the Darfur conflict, raising funds for 9/11 victims, and creating documentaries to raise awareness about international crises.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Preface
My name is Madeline Smith. I’m forty-one years old and until six months ago, I was what celebrities call a civilian (an ordinary person). I worked in a call centre, and home was a little flat near Blackwall DLR station. I didn’t have much of a social life; I’d never been on a foreign holiday; my sex life was non-existent and weekends were spent at home alone watching DVDs. If someone had told me I would be making headlines around the world, I’d have told them to pull the other one. Nothing special had ever happened to me before. I’d never even won a fiver on a scratch card. Then Bret Vincent died, and my world changed forever.
Chapter One
‘Bret Vincent is dead,’ Caroline said. She was standing by the staffroom door clutching a Starbucks coffee.
‘What?’ I looked up from my magazine.
‘He fell off a yacht and drowned. Can you believe it? He was so young.’
‘Is that the guy from Bourne Identity?’ Margery asked.
‘No that’s Tom Cruise. Bret Vincent was in Thelma and Louise.’
‘No, that’s Brad Pitt,’ I snapped. ‘Bret Vincent’s most famous for American Boy and Johnny Come Lately.’
Everyone stared at me. They weren’t used to me giving an opinion, let alone with such passion. What they didn’t know was that they had just broached one of my favourite topics – Bret Vincent’s filmography. I knew every single film he’d starred in from 1982 to present.
Caroline sat down and proceeded to peel the lid off her Caramel Macchiato.
‘Where did you hear this?’ Margery probed. ‘If you read it on the Net, then it’s probably not true.’
‘Well,’ Caroline said, ‘I was in Primark, and that’s what all the girls were talking about. Apparently it’s all over the news. Bret Vincent was at a party on some billionaire’s yacht when he fell overboard. Poor sod was probably off his face. You know what these celebrities are like.’
I went numb. Every word she spoke was like a dagger to my heart. Could this possibly be true? Could the man I had worshipped since I was fourteen really be dead? I was just about to question Caroline further when one of our office managers, William, entered the room.
‘Hello, this is Alice Graham,’ he said, gesturing towards a petite blonde standing behind him. ‘She’ll be starting with us today.’ He surveyed the room. ‘Ah, Maddy, would you mind if Alice shadows you this afternoon?’
‘Not at all,’ I mumbled.
‘Good. You finish at five, right? Alice can sit with you till then.’
I groaned inwardly. The last thing I needed was to get stuck with the new girl. I’d hoped for a quiet afternoon surfing the Net to check out the validity of the Bret Vincent story. Now that I was being shadowed, I’d have to play everything by the book.
I smiled blandly as Alice seated herself at my table. I studied her face. She was pretty: wide-set eyes and gorgeous freckles like Kate Moss. I put her as being aged between eighteen and twenty - a baby by our standards. The majority of staff in the call centre were long-serving council employees who had either landed the job through cronyism or redeployment. The managers were a cliquey bunch who didn’t make a habit of recruiting school leavers or people from the private sector, so I greeted Alice’s appointment with some bemusement.
I made an attempt to engage her. I asked her how far had she travelled from and if she had she ever worked in a call centre before. She told me that she was twenty-one, lived in Wimbledon and had previously worked as a receptionist for a pharmaceutical company.
‘Wow, you come all the way from Wimbledon?’ Margery sniffed. ‘Isn’t that really far for you to travel?’
‘It doesn’t bother me. I just go wherever the agency sends me.’
Ah. So that was it. She was a temp. That explained everything.
There was an awkward pause. Alice gave a lady-like cough and pulled out a packet of oatcakes.
‘Oh my God, is that all you’re having for lunch?’ Margery gasped. ‘There’s no way that would ever fill me up. I mean, just look at you. It’s not like you need to diet. If you lose any more weight you’ll disappear.’
‘But I’m not on a diet,’ Alice bleated. ‘Honestly, this is just a snack.’
I rolled my eyes. Here we go again, I thought, another of Margery’s lectures on the evils of healthy eating.
After lunch, I took Alice on a tour of the office. She glanced at the rows of uniform desks and remarked how fresh and modern everything looked. Fresh wasn’t a word I would have used to describe it.
Finally, we reached my desk. I was proud that I’d managed to bag us a nice secluded spot away from the watchful eye of the managers.
Alice pulled up a chair. She looked like a timid little mouse sitting there. I felt so sorry for her. Poor girl. She really didn’t know what she was letting herself in for. The bulk of queries we received were about parking fines, and you had to have nerves of steel not to let the abuse get to you.
‘Right,’ I said, clipping on my headset, ‘I’m going to log into the system, then we’ll start taking calls. You can listen in.’
She nodded enthusiastically.
Poor girl, I thought again. I wondered how long she’d last.
I handed her the phone and opened up my
lines. Immediately, a call came through.
‘Good afternoon, Parking Services,’ I greeted in a calm, controlled voice. Before I could even finish, the man cut me off with a barrage of swearing.
‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for? You’ve killed my phone bill before we’ve even started.’
Alice winced and held the receiver away from her ear.
‘I do apologise for the wait, sir,’ I grinned, ‘I will endeavour to resolve your query as swiftly as possible. How can I help?’
‘Well, you can start by telling me where the hell my car’s gone. One of your bastard - excuse my French - one of your bastard parking attendants towed it away. I’d only been gone five minutes. He said it was okay to park there. Then, when I got back, my bloody car was gone. I’m telling you, the council has got a lot to answer for. Do you think the public is made of money? I won’t let this drop. I’m going to my MP about this!’
I shook my head. I’d heard it all before - the pleas, the excuses. When you’re told the same thing thirty times a day, you get pretty desensitized to it. Still my heart went out to the guy. You’d have to be made of marble not to sympathise with somebody who’d just been told to part with the equivalent of a week’s wages.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘tell me your vehicle registration number, and I’ll see what I can do.’
As he gave me the details, I detected his tone had softened a little.
‘I’m sorry,’ he cooed, ‘I didn’t mean to have a go at you sweetheart, I know you’re just doing your job.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘What’s your name anyway?’
‘Maddy.’
‘Well Maddy, let me tell you; you’ve got a beautiful voice. I bet you’re absolutely gorgeous.’
You wouldn’t think that if you saw me, I thought darkly. Still, I was flattered. I brought up his ticket entry on the screen and rambled through the customary procedures. I explained that he’d been issued with a penalty for parking in a resident’s bay without displaying a permit. His car was being held at the local vehicle pound and, crucially, he wouldn’t be able to appeal until he had paid the release fee.
‘What? That can’t be right,’ he screamed, ‘I want to speak to your manager now!’
I rolled my eyes and unclipped my headset, scanning the room for the nearest senior. Eventually I settled for Jaiman, who was buried under a pile of Excel spreadsheets a couple of desks away. As I approached, he hunched up his shoulders defensively and pretended to be hard at work.
Jaiman was one of those young managers who strove to be your best friend, while trying to exert just the right degree of authority. He had a roving eye, but, to my chagrin, that eye never roved to me. I was invisible to him, as grey and commonplace as the furniture.
He gave a vacant smile. ‘Something the matter, Maddy?’
‘This guy wants to speak to a manager.’
‘Can’t you just tell him to write in?’
‘I tried that but he’s having none of it.’
‘What’s his problem?’
‘We towed his car away.’
‘Can’t this wait? I’ve got shitloads to do.’
‘He says it can’t. He says he wants to speak to you now.’
Reluctantly, Jaiman followed me back to my desk. His eyes lit up when he saw Alice. As the two of them exchanged flirtatious banter, I wondered why that could never be me. Was I really so hideous?
‘I’m sorry you’re not happy with the service, sir . . . By all means I’ll post you out a complaints form. Sorry to have troubled you.’ Jaiman put down the phone and smiled broadly. ‘God, that man was a nightmare.’
Alice nodded. ‘I thought you handled it really well.’
He stood up and straightened his tie conceitedly. ‘Oh, that was nothing. You should see how I handle the really difficult customers. I don’t know what it is. I must just have the gift of the gab. I know how to sweet talk them.’
I raised my eyes to heaven. Alice stifled a smirk.
After he’d gone, we took a couple more calls before going to our afternoon tea break. On my way back to the office, I found Alice sitting outside the staffroom, crying into her handbag.
‘What’s up?’ I asked, laying my hand on her shoulder.
‘My purse has been stolen,’ she wailed. ‘My cards, my keys, everything! I don’t know how I’m going to get home tonight. My parents already loaned me money for a travel card, so I can’t ask them for more.’
Without missing a beat, I reached into my wallet and handed her a twenty pound note.
‘Gosh, Maddy, I can’t take this.’
‘Course you can. And don’t worry about paying me back.’
She hugged me. ‘Oh Maddy, you’re so lovely.’
The delight on her face helped to soothe the fact that I’d given her all my lunch money for the week. Now I would have to make do with ham sandwiches and tap water till we got paid.
* * *
Rain fell in bullet-like pelts as I made my way through the darkness towards the tube station. A small crowd had gathered by the ticket barriers, indicating that there was something wrong with the Northern Line - again. Typical. It was the same thing every week: great service in the morning, crap service in the evening.
As I took my place at the back of the long queue, I spied a pile of free newspapers. Hastily, I snatched up a copy of the Evening Standard and scanned the front page: ‘Bret Vincent Missing’ it screamed.
My heart skipped a beat. So there was some truth to Caroline’s story after all. The only saving grace was that nothing was concrete yet.
All the same, it made for grim reading.
The paper said that Bret Vincent had last been seen alive at billionaire hotelier Panikkos Panteli’s fiftieth birthday party in Porto Cervo, Sardinia. Elton John, among others, had been present for the celebrations, which had continued late into the night. The beautiful actress, Maria Esposito, with whom Bret had enjoyed a high-profile, tempestuous relationship, said that they had gone to bed about midnight, but Bret had been unable to sleep so had returned above deck. It was only in the morning, when he didn’t show for breakfast, that the alarm was raised. So far, he had been missing for approximately twelve hours, and despite a rescue team’s best effort, no trace of him could be found.
For the record, Panikkos Pantelli had stated that he would ‘spare no expense to find his very dear friend,’ and he had ‘every confidence Bret would be found alive.’ There was also an article written by some safety experts speculating what Bret’s chances of survival were, had he indeed gone overboard.
I felt sick, like someone had just punched me in the stomach. It was like losing someone very close to me, like a piece of my heart had been torn out. Bret had a very real presence in my life, realer, in fact, than some members of my own family. He was the one who greeted me when I got home from work, the one who made me laugh when I had nothing but celluloid fantasies to comfort my loneliness.
‘The Northern Line’s up and running again.’
The ticket inspector’s deep voice brought me back to Earth. Slowly, the procession of disgruntled commuters filed one by one through the ticket barriers. As I went down the escalator, I opened the newspaper again in search of more information. On page three I studied a photo of Bret and Maria together at an awards ceremony. It was the same one that had appeared in Now and countless other women’s mags. I had a real love/hate relationship with that photo. On the one hand, I adored it because Bret had never looked more handsome - his skin glowed with health and his chiselled features had an almost ethereal beauty. On the other hand, the sight of his arm draped around Maria Esposito, one of the most gorgeous women on the planet, was enough to make anyone to call for the sick bucket. They made the perfect celebrity couple, evenly matched in both looks and status.
Maria’s face was like a porcelain doll: dark, bountiful curls framing luminous Bambi eyes and a cute button nose. She was almost too good to be true. How could anyone possibly be that perfect?
The press had often speculated that her looks owed more to the surgeon’s knife than Mother Nature, but either way, she had managed to bag herself the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood; so if she had had surgery, it was certainly money well spent.
When I got home, I showered and made myself a cup of tea. Then I sank onto my bed and plugged in my laptop to surf the Net for updates on the story. I searched mostly American websites, knowing that they would be the most up-to-date.
TMZ and US Weekly ran pretty much the same story as the Evening Standard - that Bret was still missing and no one had seen him since last night. There was a photo of Maria looking beautifully distressed, and an interview with one of the other party-goers (no one famous) stating that around 11 p.m., she had seen Bret knocking back martinis on the top deck. There were, however, no sightings of him after midnight, when he and Maria had allegedly retired to bed.
I stood up and looked around my room. Everything seemed so barren and empty – a reflection of my chaotic inner state. I rummaged through my drawers and fished out my earliest photo of Bret – the one of him playing Jack Kozlowski in My Brother Daryl. For long moments, I stared into those gorgeous brown eyes of his and wondered what secrets might lay behind them.
Then, I kissed the picture and tucked it back in the drawer.
‘Please don’t be dead,’ I whispered.
Chapter Two
The next day I called into work sick. I couldn’t deal with being around people right then. I couldn’t deal with customers bursting my eardrums with their vileness. My head was filled with thoughts of Bret, and I knew I wouldn’t rest until the mystery of his disappearance had been solved.
William didn’t sound too impressed when I told him I had a throat infection and wouldn’t be coming in. He kept asking me questions: Had I seen a doctor? When did I think I was likely to be back? William was very militant when it came to staff pulling sickies. It wasn’t that he was hostile exactly; it was more that he never accepted what you told him at face value. He had to probe, investigate. Still, as I rarely had time off, he knew that I wasn’t one of those who took the piss.
