Bret Vincent is Dead

by Tanith Morse

  I remained silent.

  The kitchen door opened and Angela popped her head in.

  ‘Apologies for the wait, guys. The projector clapped out, but I think we’ve got everything sorted now. Would you like to come in, please?’

  We followed her into a spacious training room that contained a projector, a couple of desks and a white board. Near the middle of the room, six chairs had been arranged to form a circle, presumably for the group exercise.

  Angela instructed us to take our seats, then handed us each a photocopy of the agenda. Five minutes later, a red-haired man introduced as Dominic Prince from HR joined us. He would be sitting in on the interviews, Angela told us, to provide support and guidance where necessary. She then handed over to Dominic to describe what the group exercise was about. He spoke with jolly gusto, with the condescending air of a children’s TV presenter.

  I groaned inwardly. It all sounded so dull and pretentious.

  First of all, we had to write a list of bullet points describing what our definition of good customer service was. Then we had to list all the bad points. Afterwards, we had to perform a role-play, showing what the council could do to improve its services to the public.

  We broke for lunch at twelve-thirty, and then returned for the one to ones in the afternoon. Mine was at two. When at last Angela called me in, I felt an unexpected pang of nerves. I smoothed down my skirt, straightened up my jacket. It was my first interview in years, so I felt so out of practise.

  Angela smiled thinly. She had on mascara today, which in my opinion made her look a lot less butch. ‘Right, make yourself comfortable Madeline. How did you find the morning session? Was it okay?’

  ‘Yeah, it was good.’ My throat had gone all dry.

  She rifled through some paperwork on her desk and pulled out my application form. After familiarising herself with it, she began: ‘So Madeline, what skills can you bring to the management team?’

  I rambled on for a couple of minutes about my experience in the call centre and how I felt the service could be improved by taking me on. Angela listened silently, taking carefully worded notes. Then she asked me a series of questions relating to the candidate specification, and asked me to give examples of how I was ‘proactive’, ‘intuitive,’ and a ‘team player.’ I answered what was thrown at me with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  Considering I’d had so little time to prepare, I reckoned I’d delivered a pretty sound interview. I wasn’t sure how I rated in the bigger scheme of things, but overall I was pleased. Even if I wasn’t successful, at least I knew I’d given it my best shot.

  I got up to leave. Angela shook my hand passionately. Her eyes were warm, friendly. ‘Thanks for coming, Madeline. It was really nice getting to know you better. I’ll be in touch soon.’

  I smiled and nodded. As I stepped out into the corridor, I felt a surge of elation. Perhaps I was in with a chance after all.

  * * *

  I switched off the dryer, ran my fingers through my hair and glanced in the dresser mirror. I wasn’t sure how to wear my hair to the cinema. Should I have it down or up? No, definitely down, I decided. I wanted to make an effort without making it look too forced.

  I switched the dryer back on and continued fanning my hair, straightening it into long shiny tufts. I caught a strand between my fingers and relished the warmth against my skin. It made me think about David’s massage. I closed my eyes and remembered how good it felt. A tingle of excitement raced through me. Those hands. Those otherworldly hands. I wondered what else they could do. My reflection smirked back at me. Caught me off guard, making me blush. I shook my head and told myself I was a fool for having such salacious thoughts. We were only going to the cinema for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t necessarily going to lead anywhere, was it?

  After I had finished blow-drying my hair, I went to the wardrobe and selected a long black knitted dress, black leggings and grey pumps. Black was the rule. It didn’t scream absolute desperation, but hopefully exuded an understated sexiness that David would find appealing.

  Finally, I opened my jewellery box and fished out a pair of demure gold studs. I was ready to go.

  I blinked at my reflection, wondering what lay ahead.

  Then the doorbell rang. Seven o’clock on the dot. I was impressed. David was certainly very punctual. Picking up my handbag, I made my way to the front door and opened it.

  ‘Hello, are you ready to go?,’ he grinned.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, closing the door behind me. I gave him the once-over. He had on a crumpled brown jacket and navy blue jeans – pretty normal until you got an eyeful of those hideous crocodile shoes. Typical David.

  The night was cool and dry. We walked side by side, almost as strangers. Then he broke the deadlock.

  ‘Did you get any more ideas about what you want to watch?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s this new Woody Allen film out, can’t remember the name. Let me think . . . oh yes, that’s it – Everybody Loves Sid.’

  I looked at him to gauge his reaction. His face was impassive. ‘Sounds good. I quite like Woody Allen. What’s that film he did was Diane Keaton? Annie Hall – that was great. Haven’t seen much of his recent stuff though.’

  ‘Well, this one’s had a lot of good reviews.’

  ‘Who’s in it?’

  ‘Bret Vincent.’

  ‘Bret Vincent? Hmmm . . . that name rings a bell.’

  ‘He’s the one who died recently. It’s been all over the news. You can’t have missed it. Everybody Loves Sid is his last film.’

  David nodded glibly. ‘Yeah, I think I did hear something about it. You’ll have to forgive me; I’m so out of touch with that sort of thing. Not really into all that celebrity malarkey.’

  ‘I see.’

  We walked in virtual silence the rest of the way to Canary Wharf

  station. When we reached the ticket barriers, David had to top up his Oyster at machine. I didn’t need to as I already had a monthly travel card. Then we got the train to North Greenwich.

  Cineworld was located on the second floor of the O2. As we approached the box office, the smell of fresh popcorn was everywhere, and I felt a rush of butterflies in my stomach. Ever since I was a kid, going to the cinema had been a magical experience for me. It was something I looked forward to, like Christmases and birthdays. There was just something so special, so epic about seeing my idols blown-up on a massive screen.

  I stopped in my tracks. A full-length poster for Everybody Loves Sid stood outside the entrance to Screen One. I studied it with wide-eyed fascination. Bret looked so handsome, so debonair. He had a funny little Clark Gable moustache and his arms were draped lovingly around his lithe leading lady, Lin Yu. I felt a lump in my throat as I wondered, fleetingly, if anyone would notice if I nicked it. Then I remembered I had company. I was with David. What on earth would he make of me being carted off by the police for theft? He probably wouldn’t speak to me again. Still, I had to laugh. It would have been be pretty funny, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Shall we get the tickets?’ David asked, snapping me out of my daydream.

  ‘Oh yes, let’s.’

  We reached the box office and ordered two tickets for the eight o’clock showing. As David reached into his pocket to pay, I rested my hand on his arm.

  ‘No worries, this is my treat.’

  ‘Really?’ he smiled. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. I invited you to come to the cinema, so it’s on me.’

  He stared at me for a second, his face unreadable. ‘I’m so touched. You know, this is the first time I’ve ever taken a woman out and she’s offered to pay for me.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m not like other women.’ I handed the box office assistant the money, took our tickets and scrutinised them. ‘I think we’re in screen six.’

  ‘Okay. Do you fancy some popcorn? At least let me get that for you?’

  I nodded eagerly. The evening was getting off to a cracking start.

  When we got to screen si
x, the auditorium was already packed. Even so, we still managed to find a cosy seat at the back, my favourite place. Hidden away in the darkness I could fully immerse myself in the fantasy of the film.

  ‘I’m so glad we made it in time for the adverts,’ David grinned. ‘It’s one of my favourite parts of going to the movies.’

  ‘Mine too!’

  After ten minutes of trailers, the opening credits to Everybody Loves Sid flashed up on screen. I experienced a wide range of emotions: happiness, sadness, ebullience. Died. Each scene, each word of dialogue had added poignancy because I knew that Bret was gone, dead, his swansong. History in the making. I glanced around the audience. They appeared to be similarly moved: couples huddling together, holding hands, teenagers silenced into quiet reverence, lapping up every bit of Bret’s performance. The closing credits prompted a standing ovation from the auditorium. His performance had been sublime. It was a career best, and truly deserving of an Oscar.

  I turned to look at David. He had been very quiet during the film. Hadn’t made a peep. He’d seemed so intense, so serious - transfixed by every small detail on screen, like it completely encompassed him. He hadn’t laughed once. Apparently he found the whole business of watching it a solemn affair.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ I asked as the lights went up.

  David sat there blinking for a couple of seconds. He seemed confused, disorientated, like he’d forgotten where he was. Then a slow smile spread across his face.

  ‘Yes, it was pretty good,’ he replied breezily. ‘Let’s go, shall we?’

  When we got outside the cinema, I was still buzzing from the film. I wanted to watch it all over again.

  ‘That was the most amazing film I’ve ever seen!’ I gushed. ‘Don’t you think Bret Vincent was absolutely fantastic?’

  ‘Er, yes. He was good.’ David paused. ‘What do you like about him so much?’

  I flushed with excitement. ‘Oh I don’t know. Everything. I’m telling you, if he doesn’t win an Oscar, I honestly don’t know what the world’s coming to. Bret Vincent is – was - the most amazing actor ever.’ I paused for breath, looked at him. ‘It’s so sad he’s gone, isn’t it? All that talent . . .’ I tried to sound upbeat, but deep down, I was growing increasingly emotional.

  There was a curious expression on David’s face that I couldn’t quite place. Then, it suddenly hit me.

  ‘Bret Vincent!’ I blurted. ‘That’s who your eyes remind me of.’

  He gave a nervous laugh. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s been bugging me ever since I met you. Your eyes . . . the colour, the shape. They’re so like his.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. He’s a very good-looking guy. You’re the first person to ever say that, though. Personally, I can’t see the resemblance.’ Gently, he slipped his arm through mine.

  I couldn’t stop smiling.

  My heart was thudding in my ears. This was the first time a man had ever showed me affection in public. The first time anyone had ever laid claim to me. I swelled with pride.

  ‘So Madeline, the night is still young. What do you want to do now? Do you fancy getting a bite to eat somewhere? My treat, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to.’

  ‘Nonsense! I’m absolutely starving. There’s a nice French restaurant in Canary Wharf I’d like to try.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, great.’

  We got to Café Rouge at just after ten-thirty. At first, we weren’t sure they’d admit us, but in the end David managed to persuade them into giving us a table inside.

  The moustachioed waiter immediately came over to take our order. David began conversing with him in French. I watched, open-mouthed as the two of them grew increasingly animated, laughing and joking like old friends. Was there no end to David’s surprises? Krav Maga, professional masseur, now this.

  ‘I think I’ve got everything sorted,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘The waiter says he’ll give us a free bottle of wine when his manager’s not looking.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ I giggled.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? I lived there for a couple of years, just after I graduated.’

  ‘You have so many hidden talents, David!’

  ‘And you haven’t seen half of them.’

  Whatever could he mean? I felt that same tingle of excitement again.

  The waiter came back with a chilled bottle of Truffle Chardonnay, which I assumed was on the house. Then for starters we had Beignets de Crabe (crab cakes in chilli and coriander jam) and Champignons de Paris (baked mushrooms in garlic sauce). For mains, David had Sole-Limande (lemon sole with potatoes), and I had Boeuf Bourguignon (beef braised in red wine). The food was absolutely scrumptious and, never one to shy away from a good meal, I launched a savage assault on my plate.

  Every now and then, I’d catch David scrutinising me, like he was enjoying the spectacle of watching me eat.

  ‘What?’ I asked through a mouthful of beef. ‘Why do you keep looking at me?’

  ‘I just like watching you. I like a woman with a healthy appetite. All the women I’ve dated in the past . . . well, let’s just say they haven’t had a very good relationship with food.’

  Ah, his other women. This was a conversation I didn’t really want to have. I felt a sudden twinge of jealously. But why? I barely knew the man. It was far too early for me to be forming this sort of attachment. I shook my head clear. Get a grip, I told myself. Taking another sip of wine, I picked moodily at my salad.

  David sensed my irritation. ‘So, what was your favourite part of the film?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  I brightened up immediately. ‘The bit when Bret got to Versailles and found that his suitcase was missing.’

  ‘Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was such a great film,’ I enthused, ‘I could definitely see it again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I chose my next words carefully. ‘I’m a massive fan of Bret Vincent. Always have been. I don’t know if you noticed that all my DVDs at home were his.’

  ‘Actually I hadn’t,’ David grinned.

  I looked at him wryly. ‘Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved his movies. It’s not going to be the same without him.’ My voice broke a little. I focused back on my plate. That was enough for now. I didn’t want to scare David off with too many gushing appraisals of Bret.

  He stared at me for a long time. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. I wondered what he was thinking.

  Then he returned to eating his food. I glanced shyly up at him, studied his features. David certainly wasn’t conventionally good-looking, but he had something. Magnetism, a charisma that I found irresistible.

  ‘So Madeline, you say you’re a scriptwriter. Are you working on anything at the moment?’

  ‘No, I haven’t really had the time. Been so busy with work and stuff.’

  ‘Okay, so what about your last script? What was it about? Give me a brief summary.’

  I suddenly went all coy. ‘Er, it’s called Jane Bloggs.’

  ‘Intriguing title. Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, basically it’s about a woman called Jane who’s sick of her life – she’s horribly obese and stuck in a boring job. Then she meets the guy of her dreams. Things go well for a while, then the man dumps her for a slimmer, prettier girl. Jane has a nervous breakdown and goes on a rampage in West End. She holds up a bank, confronts a mugger . . .’

  ‘Okay, so this is kind of like a female version of Michael Douglas’s Falling Down?’

  ‘Exactly! I’m so glad you picked up on that.’

  ‘What happens at the end?’

  ‘She kills everybody and throws herself under a train.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a long silence, during which David appeared to be weighing up if I was joking or not. Then he burst out laughing – that dirty Kenneth Williams laugh I loved so much. ‘Well, it’s cert
ainly a very brave ending, I’ll give you that. Not very Hollywood.’

  ‘Oh no, this would never be a Hollywood film. More of an Indie picture. I’m into realism, not all that studio fluff.’

  ‘Meaning that happy endings don’t happen?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. I just find that life rarely ever imitates art.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he said quietly.

  I scraped the last remnants of gravy off my plate. David called for the bill. When it arrived, he snatched it away before I got a look at it. He gave it a disinterested glance, smiled, and then took out his wallet. For a second, he went really quiet. Then he wiped the corners of his mouth and looked up at me with a sickly grin.

  ‘Er, I’m sorry, but I don’t appear to have enough cash on me to pay for this.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said despondently.

  ‘And I’m afraid I’ve left my card at home too. Sorry, I feel like such an arse.’

  ‘No problem. Don’t worry; it’s happened to me loads of times.’ I took the bill (forty-seven pounds), and settled it with my MasterCard.

  Then we got up to leave.

  David was extremely apologetic as we walked home. He took my arm, gripped me close to him, like I was some kind of precious jewel. The city lights twinkled in the darkness, making beautiful coloured ripples in the water as we passed. Everything looked so romantic, so serene, like those postcards they sell in Leicester Square.

  ‘I feel so bad about this,’ he mumbled, ‘will you ever forgive me?’

  I told him that there was nothing to forgive, reassured him that everything was fine, and refused point-blank for him to reimburse me. Secretly, however, I was hoping my graciousness would secure me at least a goodnight kiss or even better, a heated fumble on my sofa. I was in an amorous mood and up for anything carnal David might suggest.

  When we got home, I invited him in for a coffee.

  ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow for a shoot. But thanks all the same, and thanks for a lovely evening. We should do it again sometime.’

  And then he disappeared into his flat. No hug, no kiss, no nothing.

  I was gutted.