Bret Vincent is Dead

by Tanith Morse

  ‘Okay, sounds fun. I’ll pick you up around six?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I saw him out.

  Closing the door behind me, I collapsed on the sofa. David Powell was a conundrum and a half. I rarely knew where I stood with him, but God, was he a great dancer, and kind and lovely and probably just saved me from topping myself. Plus he had agreed to accompany me to Beth’s awful dinner party, so I should at least be grateful for that.

  I picked up the remote control and played Sweetest Taboo on full blast for the rest of the night.

  Chapter Eight

  Beth and Phil lived in a beautiful Victorian house located about ten minutes from Highgate Tube station. It had a contemporary exterior, large bay windows, three bedrooms, two receptions and an immaculately pruned private garden. It wasn’t as big as their last home in Crouch End, but in my opinion, it had more character.

  We arrived at just after seven. I was dressed sedately in a grey cotton dress and strappy sandals I only wore on special occasions. David wore his usual tweed jacket with drainpipe jeans. We rang the bell twice before a harassed-looking Phil answered. My brother-in-law hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen him. He was still thin as a rake, still wide-eyed and weary-looking. Despite being the same age as Beth, premature hair loss ran in his family, which made him look ten years older. When they had first started dating in their early twenties, Phil had already lost most of it, and used to comb what strands he had left over the bald patch. More recently however, he had vetoed this in favour of the fully shaven look, which suited him better.

  Phil was on a six-figure salary as the director of a charity that claimed to ‘bring clean water to Africa.’ I had always wondered how ethical it was for so-called non-profit organisations to pay its staff such high salaries, when surely, the money would be better spent on the relief efforts they alleged to represent. I couldn’t see how the many extravagant lunches Phil attended, and the seemingly endless expenses tabs could be advantageous to some poor kid on the other side of the world waiting for a well to be built in their village.

  Over the years, Phil and I had had many heated debates on this topic. He was of the opinion that the high overheads required to run his charity were justifiable because society events were a great way to raise profile and get a worthy cause into the public eye. So what if a large percentage of donations went on swanky hotels and dinners, as long as some of that revenue eventually reached those who needed it? To people living in such desperate conditions, some money was better than no money, wasn’t it? It was during conversations such as these that I really had to doubt my brother-in-law’s veracity.

  Phil smiled and shook David’s hand, before giving me a little peck on the cheek.

  ‘Lovely to see you both! I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place this time Maddy?’

  ‘No, no, I remembered the way.’ I handed him the greeting card and bottle of Cava we’d brought him. ‘Happy birthday darling.’

  ‘Thank you. Please, please come in. Tom and Jane have just arrived. Everyone’s waiting for you in the lounge.’

  ‘How’s Vicky? Is she up?’

  ‘God no, we’ve got a baby-sitter. It’s adults only tonight.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame. I would have loved to have seen her.’ Secretly I was relieved. The last time I’d come, Vicky had spent the whole evening jumping up and down on the sofa, screaming for attention, and then somehow managed to pour a whole bottle of Ribena over their new cream carpet. Not a pretty sight.

  We followed Phil through the hallway into a large living room, where Beth was serving drinks to the other guests.

  ‘Oh darling, you made it, how wonderful!’ she shrieked.

  We embraced warmly, and then my sister proceeded to introduce David to everyone else: Robert and Pauline, who were both lawyers, and Tom and Jane who worked in the city - something to do with hedge funds (whatever those are).

  After Beth had finished her frenzied introductions, we were all led into the fabulous dining room, which had progressed somewhat from the empty shell it had been on my last visit. The large rosewood table was laid out immaculately for eight while a beautiful antique chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  My sister served us cocktails followed by spicy onion soup (actually quite tasty, not sure if she made it from scratch or the tin). Then we tucked into her famous lamb roast, which was absolutely delicious. The potatoes were a bit burnt, but overall Beth had done a good job. I could tell she was very pleased with herself.

  The conversation at dinner was highly animated. Jane and Pauline debated the benefits of sending their children to Church of England schools, despite the two of them being atheists, and the men indulged in their usual good-natured banter – football, cars and politics. However, David was surprisingly quiet and subdued. Apart from complimenting Beth on her cooking, he barely spoke a word to anyone, preferring to keep focused on his plate.

  My sister soon picked up on this and attempted to engage him. ‘More wine, David?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘What do you do again, David?’

  ‘I’m a photographer.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ Tom grinned. ‘What do you photo?’

  David gave his customary speech about buildings, and people and I tried hard not to laugh. I wondered if he ever got sick of having to repeat himself all the time.

  ‘Is there good money to be made from that, then?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Yes, can be. Though, I do it more out of love than for the money.’

  ‘I wish I was able to do something like that,’ Jane sighed. ‘I love taking pictures. I can’t imagine a more wonderful occupation.’

  Beth went around refilling everyone’s glasses. ‘So David, Maddy tells me you went to the cinema the other day. What did you guys see?’

  ‘What was that film again, Madeline?’ David asked.

  ‘Everybody Loves Sid,’ I replied flippantly.

  ‘Oh I’ve seen that!’ Jane shrieked. ‘Bret Vincent. Absolutely brilliant film. Loved it, loved it, loved it! He’s so gorgeous, isn’t he? I’m sooo sad he’s dead.’

  ‘Bret Vincent?’ Robert cocked an eyebrow. ‘That’s the bloke that fell off the yacht isn’t it? Poor guy. What a way to go.’

  ‘I know,’ Jane enthused. ‘It’s absolutely dreadful! By the way, does anyone know if they ever found his body?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No they didn’t.’

  ‘Then how do we know he’s really dead? I mean technically, he could be hiding somewhere sipping gin and tonics with Lord Lucan in the South American rainforest.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Robert countered, ‘there’s no way someone could survive in open water for that long. He’s got to be dead. His body is probably at the bottom of the ocean somewhere, and they just haven’t found it.’

  Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh darling, you can be such a killjoy.’

  ‘Wasn’t he dating that actress - you know, what’s her name with the big bum . . . Maria Esposito?’ Tom started drooling. ‘Mmm, yes . . . Maria Esposito. He was a lucky bastard wasn’t he? What I wouldn’t give to have some private time with her.’

  ‘She’s only famous because of her looks,’ Pauline snorted. ‘I saw that wedding film she was in, and she’s a terrible actress.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Tom laughed, ‘I don’t go to a Maria Esposito movie for her acting.’

  ‘Could you be a dear and pass me the bread knife?’ Robert asked. Jane handed it to him , and then he proceeded to cut the wholemeal loaf into meticulous little slices.

  ‘So,’ Jane said, addressing the table, ‘who do you think Bret Vincent left his millions to? He must have been absolutely loaded.’

  Phil nodded his head solemnly. ‘Well, I just hope he did something sensible with it. After all, these actors are paid obscene amounts of money just to piss around on a movie set all day. It’s not a proper job is it? They don’t live in the real world. Most of them are away with the fairies.’

  David put down his fork a
nd eyed Phil carefully. ‘So what do you think he should have done with his money?’

  ‘I think he should have given it all to charity. That’s the least he could do after making so much money for doing nothing.’

  ‘How do you know Bret Vincent didn’t already give a substantial amount of his earnings to charity? In fact, how do you know he didn’t give the lion’s share to charity?’

  Phil scratched his nose irritably. ‘Well, obviously, I’m not the man’s accountant, but I’d hazard a guess that Bret Vincent was just as mean and selfish as most of those gormless celebrities are. I mean, when do any of them ever do anything that actually makes a difference to the world?’

  ‘Now hold on a minute Phil,’ Tom cut in, ‘that’s incredibly unfair. What about people like Bob Geldof, Bono, Sting . . . those guys have raised millions for worthy causes. What about Live Aid? You can’t tar all celebrities with the same brush.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Jane trilled, ‘well said, Tom.’

  David turned back to Phil, who was now looking decidedly uptight. ‘To be honest Phillip, I’d say the less song and dance a celebrity makes about their generosity the better. I mean, if it’s really coming from the heart, why the need to publicise it? If a celebrity genuinely wants to help a good cause, why not do it confidentially? You don’t need to tell the whole world about it; it’s not a photo opportunity. Just knowing that you’ve done a good deed should be enough reward in itself.’

  ‘Now that’s where I tend to disagree with you,’ Phil said. ‘Celebrities do need to publicise their generosity because it helps to raise public awareness. I mean, having Angelina Jolie as your patron gives a charity far better exposure than shaking a collection tin down Oxford Street on a Saturday. At the end of the day, David, if it brings money to a good cause, who cares if the celebrity earns a little free publicity from it?’

  ‘Do you give to good causes, Phillip?’

  ‘Phil runs his own charity,’ Beth said cheerily.

  ‘Oh really?’ David raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. So I’m speaking with an expert, then. I didn’t realise.’ He leaned forward, fixed his eyes on Phil. ‘So, how much of your salary do you give to charity? Ten per cent? Fifty per cent?’

  ‘Oh come on! This isn’t about me,’ Phil laughed. ‘I’m not a multi-millionaire, am I?’

  ‘That’s not the point. You’re saying that if someone is grossly overpaid, they should do the good thing by giving the bulk of their ill-gotten gains to charity. Your perception of overpaid is relative. Looking around your home, I’d say you make a pretty decent living, Phil. A road sweeper might look at you and ask the same questions you asked of Bret Vincent.’

  Phil turned the colour of chalk. ‘Well, I er . . .’

  ‘Actually that’s a very good question,’ Jane said tartly, ‘I never thought about that before. Come on. Out with it, Phil. How much do you give back?’

  ‘So David,’ Beth simpered, changing the subject, ‘how was Maddy in the cinema? Was she drooling over her phantom boyfriend again?’

  I kicked her leg viciously under the table, but my sister was in her element and had no intention of stopping.

  David looked at me curiously. ‘Phantom boyfriend? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I mean Bret Vincent of course. Maddy’s been absolutely obsessed with him since we were kids. She’s got all his memorabilia, all his films. I think she had this crazy dream that one day he’d sweep her off her feet and marry her in some fairytale wedding.’ Beth cackled wickedly. ‘Do you know, it was so sweet when we were at school, boys would ask Maddy out, and she’d say, “I’m saving myself for Bret!”’

  The whole table roared with laughter. Pauline wiped away a tear. ‘Oh Maddy you didn’t, did you? That’s so funny!’

  I wanted the ground to swallow me up. My sister could be such a bitch sometimes. ‘Yeah it is true,’ I said with dignity, ‘and I’m not ashamed of it.’

  I glanced at David. He wasn’t laughing. He was staring at me with a look of quiet reverence on his face. ‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ he said solemnly, 'I think it’s rather endearing. There’s nothing wrong with being an avid fan. When I was a kid, I seem to remember having a rather unhealthy attachment to Priscilla Presley during her stint on Dallas.’

  ‘God, yeah!’ Tom broke in. ‘She was stunning, wasn’t she? I also had a thing for Kelly Le Brock . . .’

  And so the conversation shifted to the top-ten most fanciable women of the ‘80s. I was off the hook. David had come to my rescue, and I was eternally grateful to him for that. Occasionally, I’d catch him stealing glances at me, his face alive with amusement . . . and something else. I didn’t know what.

  Phil nudged Tom. ‘What a result at the weekend eh?’

  ‘Don’t get me started! Mate, I’m telling you, we were robbed. Don’t know how the ref gave that penalty.’

  David continued to eat in a bemused silence.

  ‘Did you manage to catch the game?’ Phil asked him.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Who do you support? Are you an Arsenal or Spurs man?’

  ‘Um, er, Arsenal.’

  Tom and Robert cheered in unison. The discussion about football continued for a couple of minutes, during which I caught Phil watching David curiously, like he was trying to read him, work him out.

  ‘So David, what do you think about Youare Awanka’s transfer?’ Phil said the name so quickly, at first I didn’t catch the joke.

  ‘Excuse me?’ David asked politely, wiping his mouth.

  ‘You know that African player Youare Awanka? Arsenal bought him for twenty million. Do you think he’s worth it?’

  There was a tense silence around the table.

  ‘Oh yes, definitely,’ David nodded eagerly, ‘he’s one of the best players we’ve got.’

  Tom almost spat out his wine.

  ‘Enough,’ Beth scolded, ‘you guys are terrible. Leave poor David alone.’

  David frowned. He still didn’t seem to get the joke.

  I quickly changed the subject. ‘So Beth, how’s your appeal for Vicky’s school going?’

  ‘Oh darling, don’t get me started! That headmistress is absolutely dire. You’ll never believe what she said to me . . .’

  As Beth rattled on, David and I exchanged glances. The look of relief on his face told me that he knew I’d just saved his bacon.

  I glared at Phil, surprised by how vindictive he’d been. Clearly, David had no interest in football whatsoever and had only played along to be part of the lads’ conversation, so why had Phil exposed his ineptitude so cruelly? Okay, perhaps he was a bit smashed, but that still wasn’t an excuse.

  As I continued to study him, I noticed that his general demeanour had changed. He had a cocky self-assurance that I hadn’t seen before; he cracked jokes with dubious sexual undertones; he poked fun at my sister’s abysmal culinary skills and had less of a potbelly, like he’d been working out.

  This definitely wasn’t the Phil I knew. The Phil I knew would never have mocked David so harshly. At that moment, I was almost certain that my brother-in-law was having an affair.

  * * *

  Later that night, when I got home from the party, Beth phoned me for the obligatory after dinner gossip.

  ‘Darling, did you get back safely?’

  ‘Yeah, we managed to get the last train.’ I kicked off my shoes. The straps had been digging into my heels all evening, and my feet were killing me.

  She hesitated, like there was something on her mind. ‘Mads, I don’t know what’s gotten into Phil. For some reason, he doesn’t like David.’

  ‘Why not?’ I patted my hair irritably.

  ‘I don’t know. He keeps going on about how David lied about supporting Arsenal. Phil says it was terribly disingenuous of him and reckons it’s a sign that David’s not to be trusted. I mean, if he lied about that, what else is he hiding? He also said that he noticed David doesn’t like making eye-contact with people, another sign that he’s shifty.’
/>   ‘Nonsense! That’s absolute rubbish, Beth.’

  ‘I know, I know, I totally agree. I think David’s lovely. Phil’s probably jealous cos I won’t stop going on about the time when David did that Krav Magga thingy. But darling, listen, there’s something else . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Phil reckons David wears a wig.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Well,’ she explained, ‘you know how Phil used to help glue on his dad’s toupee? Well, he knows fake hair when he sees it and . . . well, Phil says David’s definitely wearing a wig.’

  I fell silent. ‘Okay, so David’s bald - so what? Not all men want to walk around with a bald patch like Phil.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more, darling. Wigs are absolutely fine in my opinion.’

  Neither of us said anything. I was hurt by Phil’s attack more than I let on. By insulting David, it was like he was insulting me, and I didn’t like it. I felt a surge of indignation in my chest.

  ‘Anyway, Phil’s a fine one to talk about trust, isn’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, look at this thing with his receptionist. He’s talking about David looking shifty, when he’s up to his own dirty tricks.’

  ‘Maddy, I thought you said I was overreacting about that!’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind. There was something odd about Phil’s behaviour today. He didn’t seem like himself. Like he was hiding something.’

  ‘Gosh, do you think so?’ My sister sounded fearful.

  ‘Has his receptionist called the house since I last spoke to you?’

  ‘Yes, once or twice.’

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Nervous, like before.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes open, Beth, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want you getting hurt.’

  ‘I knew he was up to something; I just knew it!’

  I smiled mirthlessly. The seeds of doubt had been planted.

  After I’d hung up, I felt a bit bad for dishing the dirt. But I just couldn’t let Phil get away with being so nasty about David. What did it matter if he wore a wig and had occasional smelly feet? If anything, it made me like him even more, because it made him more human. God knows I was no oil painting. Who was I to judge?