by Tanith Morse
I asked him why he had made David a freelance photographer, and Bret explained it was a chance for him to indulge one of his greatest passions - photography. He also said he had chosen to move to London because he had always admired the city’s architecture. It would be a chance for him to explore one of the few parts of the world he hadn’t lived in. In short, Bret saw his deception as a holiday from his life as a celebrity, a chance to explore what his life could have been like had he chosen an ordinary, mundane existance.
Now that the transformation was complete it was now just a matter of him lying low until Oscar night, at which point . . . well, he hadn’t seemed to have thought that far ahead.
‘And there’s my problem Madeline,’ Bret said quietly. ‘I’ve got myself into a real mess. It started out as a joke, but now, to be honest, I’m not sure where it’s all heading. I sort of feel like Jekyll and Hyde. I’m not sure which life I prefer: my life as Bret or my life as David. You see I . . . Madeline, what’s wrong? Have I said anything to upset you?’
I couldn’t hold back anymore. ‘So let me get this straight. Everything about you was a lie. David Powell never existed. The hair, the accent, the nose, the bad teeth – it was all fake!’
‘Well, actually, the teeth are mine. I took out my veneers.’
‘Oh whoopie do. Ladies and gentlemen, the teeth were real. Give the the man a round of applause.’ I glared at him. ‘So Krav Maga, the salsa dancing, your time in Israel. That was all lies too?’
‘Well, not exactly. I did learn those skills, and I did spend some time in Israel, but it was in order to get into character for past movie roles. You must know how dedicated I am to my craft. After all Madeline, you are my biggest fan.’
‘Don’t take the piss. I can’t believe how naïve I’ve been. You must have been having a jolly good laugh at my expense, pulling the wool over my eyes. My God. When I think about the stuff I’ve told you, private stuff – stuff I’ve never told anybody. It makes me cringe!’
‘Madeline, please. Don’t take it that way. I - ’
‘You bastard!’ I cried. ‘How can you sit there so calmly, knowing that you’ve done something so . . . so wrong. Do you know how many people you’ve hurt? I mean, think about your family, Maria, your fans . . . you broke all their hearts, left them thinking you’d died so that you could win a bet? Conduct a social experiment? Do you know how cold and callous that is? How, how crazy and fucked up that is? Everyone thought you were dead, Bret. I thought you were dead. You’ve just got no idea have you? You haven’t got a clue. I can’t believe this, I just can’t, I can’t.’
There was a long, dark silence. Bret blinked at me with an impassive expression. I looked at him through glacial eyes. ‘So was I part of this social experiment, Bret? What was I - some kind of charity case? Thought you’d take a break from models and actresses and shack up with a fat bird from Blackwall, did you? No wonder you can’t bear to touch me, no wonder! I kept thinking, “when’s he gonna make his move?” Ha! Some hope. What is it, Bret? Am I not slim enough for your taste, not pretty enough? You were never interested in me, were you? No, I was just part of your bloody experiment!’
‘Now don’t go too far, Madeline, I’m warning you!’ He was shouting now. ‘You’re not so perfect yourself. You lied to me too. You lied about your age.’
‘Excuse me, but fibbing about my age doesn’t exactly rank up there with doing a Reggie Perrin!’
‘Who’s Reggie Perrin?’
I let out a loud sigh of exasperation. ‘Look David – Bret - whatever your name is. Just please tell me one thing: why me? Why did you choose to bring me into your web of deceit? Why? Are you a sadist as well as a liar?’
He faced me head on. ‘Do you really want to know? If you want me to tell you then I will, but I don’t think you’ll like the answer.’
‘Just tell me for Christ’s sake!’
He paused, bit down on his lip. The beauty of the man was astounding but I was too mad to care. ‘I felt sorry for you.’
‘Right, so that’s confirmed then – I was a charity case. I knew it!’
‘Shut up and just listen, will you? When I moved here, I tried to keep to myself, tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Then I started to notice you around. I noticed your routine. You did the same thing every day. Work then home, work then home. You stayed in all weekend. No friends, no visitors. I used to hear you crying at nights, I heard you talking to yourself. I sensed your loneliness. Sensed your yearning to be loved. And I know what that feels like. I know what it’s like to be lonely, to feel so isolated and alone that your tears are your only company.’
‘Oh, my heart just weeps for you’.
Bret ignored my sarcasm and continued: ‘I reached out to you, Madeline, as one person does to another. Yes, I’ll admit I engineered that first meeting with you. I hadn’t lost my keys, but it was the only ruse I could think of to enter your life. Yeah and maybe I wanted to try out David on you, to see if I could get away with it. But there was much more than that. I sensed your vulnerability, your hositility towards strangers. I had to do it. I couldn’t bear to hear you crying any more. I knew you needed a friend.’
I stared at him for a long time. Then, I burst into tears. It was the most moving thing anyone had ever said to me and yet, this realisation was also tainted with sadness. Despite his prostesations to the contrary, I felt more than ever that I was a figure of pity. I was indeed a charity case.
He drew me towards him, wrapped me in my arms. I sobbed loudly, making strange noises that sounded like a wounded animal. I had to get it all out. It wasn’t just the shock of Bret’s duplicity. I was mourning the loss of David as well. The man I had fallen in love with. Had everything we had shared been a lie? Had it all been an act? This man that was holding me in his arms, this Bret Vincent, was someone I didn’t know. The actor, the person behind David’s mask was someone entirely different, someone I had no connection with. It was all too much for me to bear.
‘Don’t think so badly of me, Madeline. You have no idea what it’s like to be in the spotlight all the time, what it’s like never to have had any privacy . . . not since I was twelve years old. Can you imagine what that’s like? To never live a normal life, be one of the ordinary people. You don’t realise how lucky you are. Anonymity is something I’ve craved for years. I know what I did was wrong but try, please, to see that my motives were not as cynical as you might imagine. I know it sounds like a cliché, but it really is lonely at the top sometimes.’
I stumbled over the coffee table.
Bret moved forward, swiftly took hold of my waist and steered me towards the bedroom. ‘I think it’s time we put you to bed. You’ve had a long night.’ Gently, he eased off my shoes then helped me stagger fully clothed onto the mattress. My head was reeling as he pulled the duvet covers over me.
‘It’s all just one big performance, isn’t it?’ I slurred. ‘Just . . . one big performance.’
‘Sweet dreams, baby,’ he whispered, before switching off the light and leaving me alone in the darkness. I closed my eyes tightly. Sleep was the only cure for this madness. The only antidote to insanity. When I awoke in the morning, I told myself, everything would be back to normal. It had to be.
Chapter Seventeen
Daylight entered the room. Blinking rapidly, I slowly started to adjust to my surroundings. At first, I didn’t know where I was. Then it all came flooding back. I was in David’s flat. The rest of the previous night’s events flittered through my head like erroneous pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
I groaned, turned over, buried my head in the pillow. My head hurt like hell. The worst hangover ever. Opening my eyes again, I wondered what time it was. I raised myself up on my elbows, glanced down the side of the bed and saw a bucket filled with vomit. Had I done that? Licking my flaky lips, I realised how sour my mouth tasted. Yes, that must have been me. Oh God. Had I embarrassed myself last night?
Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Bret Vincent wa
lked in. He was dressed in faded jeans and a loose fitting paisley shirt. In his hands he carried a tray laden with croissants and orange juice.
I froze. Every part of my body went rigid from shock.
‘Have I died and gone to Heaven?’ I murmured, more to myself than him. Bret Vincent serving me breakfast? Get outta here!
He laughed and placed the tray on the dresser. ‘Good, you’re awake. How’s your hangover? You know, you were throwing up all night. I was really worried about you.’
I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. This was just too surreal. Fragments from the night before started to come back to me and I had to pinch myself to check that I wasn’t dreaming. Was I really lying here staring at Bret Vincent? It didn’t seem possible, yet every indication was that this was indeed real.
I covered my mouth with my hand, spoke through my fingers. I was shaking uncontrollably. ‘You . . . ’
Bret perched himself at the edge of the bed, took a bite out of one of the croissants and stared at me for a couple of minutes. ‘You really should eat something. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘I can’t eat,’ I mumbled.
He was older than he looked on screen, but this only made him more attractive in my opinion. He had flawless tanned skin and features that were refined in an understated way. When he smiled, there were gorgeous crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The same way David had smiled.
Suddenly, I was acutely aware of having the residue of dried vomit on my chin. There was also the overall discomfort of wearing the same clothes from the night before, a sticky, musty feeling that made me feel like a sweaty baboon. A wave of embarrassment swept over me. I needed a reality check – and fast!
Flinging back the covers, I clambered out of bed and raced into the bathroom. I needed to cool down, needed to get some perspective on things. I splashed cold water on my face, rinsed my mouth out with Listerine four times. Then, composing myself as best I could, I returned to face Bret. He was still waiting for me on the bed, quietly sipping his orange juice. His face was alive, expectant.
‘Listen,’ I said quickly, ‘I have to go now. Really I do.’
‘Why? It’s a Saturday. Where have you got to be?’
Damn! I’d lost my other shoe. ‘It’s just . . . I need to get my head together, that’s all. Please, I promise I won’t be long. I’ll come back later.’
Bret looked at me dubiously. He put down his orange juice, walked up to me and stood with his face a couple of inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, the sweetness of his aftershave, the smell of a freshly washed body. A tingle coursed through me. I couldn’t look him. He was too beautiful, too attractive. I didn’t want anything to cloud my judgement.
‘You would never betray me, Madeline, would you?’ he purred. ‘You are on my side, aren’t you? I can count on you. I mean, you would never go to the press with this? Sell me down the river to make a fast buck?’
I didn’t miss a beat. ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I-I’m so grateful, so privileged that you thought you could confide in me, that you considered me capable of sharing something of this magnitude with you.’ My words sounded so flat, so empty. In no way did they convey the enormity of what I was truly feeling.
‘Okay, you can go,’ he said at last.
Wearing only one shoe (bugger the other one), I opened the door and started to hobble out of the room.
‘That’s the closet,’ Bret said tightly.
‘Oh! Sorry.’ Hastily, I disentangled myself from the rows of coat hangers and made my exit through the correct door.
When I got back to my flat, I peeled off my sweaty clothes and jumped in the shower. Somehow the jets of hot water helped to heal me, helped to get my head straight, keep me focused. Of course I was being unreasonable. Bret was right; how could I possibly know what it was like to be him? He was a movie star, for Christ’s sake. Who was I? A nobody.
I rubbed soap over my body and wondered what it would be like to be hounded by the press all the time. To live every part of your life under a microscope. Who knew what any of us would do in that situation?
I turned off the shower and started towelling myself down. Then I slipped on my red silk dressing gown, rubbed cream over my body, cleaned my teeth three times. All the dirt and residue from the night before had finally been erased.
Then the doorbell rang. Still rubbing my hair vigorously with the towel, I rushed to answer it.
I caught my breath.
Bret was standing there holding a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne flutes. He looked sexy as hell: dark and brooding and even more gorgeous than he had done an hour ago (if that was at all possible). He didn’t say anything. He just stood there for a second-long eternity, watching me, studying me, devouring me with his gaze. Slowly, his eyes travelled from face, to my breasts, to my feet, then up again. Turning, but still with his eyes fixed on me, he locked the door behind him.
There was no escape now.
I laughed nervously, backed away. My hair was still wet and drops of water were drizzling down my neck and back. The damp dressing gown clung to my body in unruly clumps.
‘More alcohol, Bret?’ I quipped, pointing to the bottle. ‘Surely not? Then again, my mother used to say that the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, so what do I know, right?’ My voice faltered, my eyes straying away from his. I was so anxious I was actually starting to tremble.
Bret silently followed me through to the kitchen, then put down the champagne and glasses on the table. His mouth was hinting, speaking to me, promising something I dared not contemplate.
‘Do you want to open the champagne, or shall I?’ I paused. ‘Actually, I hate popping corks, so perhaps you’d better do it.’
Suddenly, he lunged forward, swept me from the ground and roughly thrust me on to the table. Hungrily, he devoured my face with hot, savage kisses. Penetrating kisses. Ran his hands up and down my thighs; hitched up my gown. Never had I been so turned on in my life. I responded with all the ferocity of a woman who had been starved of sex for a quarter of a century.
The glasses smashed to the floor. Broke to pieces. We didn’t care. After several minutes of crazed, breathless frenzy, Bret paused for air. Reaching past me, he picked up the Dom Perignon, popped open the cork, and covered us both in a fountain of bubbly. I shuddered at the cool, tingly sensation against my skin.
Then Bret reached into my dressing gown, cupped one of my ample breasts in his hand, squeezed it hard. I gasped with delight. Lowering his head, he caught the nipple between his teeth, ran his long agile tongue over it. Next, he carried me into the bedroom. Threw me down on the mattress like a rag doll, stripped me naked.
For a second, he stared down at me, catching his breath. I was filled with fear. What was he looking at? My stretch marks? My podgy tummy? I felt so exposed, so vulnerable. The only thing I was thankful for was that I had bothered to shave down there.
Bloody well say something then, I thought. Anything was better than this dank silence.
‘You’ve got such a beautiful body,’ he said softly. ‘So, so beautiful . . .’
I gulped, my limbs frozen with the anticipation of what was to come. Closing my eyes, I listened as Bret stalked about the room. I heard the opening of my wardrobe, the closing of one of my drawers. What on earth was he up to?
I looked up and saw that he had found what he was looking for – a pair of opaque tights. With worrying glee, he tied my hands together and secured the nylon firmly to the bedpost. He did it all with such ease, like he was the connoisseur of knot tying. I was on fire, my body screaming out for him to touch me again, but now I saw he was holding out, making me wait. He wasn’t going to rush anything.
Bret started to undress himself. He did it with slow relish, like he was performing a strip tease for me. If I hadn’t been tied up, I would have probably looked away, but as I was his prisoner, there wasn’t a choice in the matter.
First, he unbuttoned his shirt, dropped it to the floor. I d
rooled at the sight of his toned pecks, strong, muscular arms, and that six-pack that had been the stuff of legends since his first topless appearance in The Long Summer.
I had to take short little breaths to keep myself from going completely gaga.
Next, he unzipped his trousers, peeled off his boxer shorts. I gasped at what I saw. Let’s just say the rumours that Bret Vincent is hung like a horse are very much substantiated. I remembered reading a kiss and tell about a threesome he’d allegedly had in a Vegas hotel with two strippers. The story had been extremely favourable about his performance in bed, with both tarts commenting repeatedly about how well endowed he was and what amazing stamina he had. Both strippers were left panting for more, but sadly, whores who sell stories to the media aren’t likely to get a second shot with the celebrity Lothario they have betrayed.
I had always been aware of Bret’s reputation as a ladies man. It was part of his appeal, part of his mystique. The consummate bachelor boy. Over the years, I had pored obsessively over the various liaisons he had supposedly had with everyone from waitresses to budding starlets, critiquing their attractiveness and worthiness of my idol’s attentions. Despite various discrepancies in these stories, the one thing everyone agreed upon was that Bret Vincent was a great lay. At one point, in the late ‘90s, he’d even admitted to having a sex addiction, and sought treatment for it at an expensive rehab clinic. But in recent years, Bret had seemed to have put his wild past behind him, having enjoyed two high profile, monogamous relationships - most recently, of course, with Maria Esposito.
The fact that I was about to experience something I’d only ever fantasised of, filled me with almost paralytic excitement.
Bret picked up the champagne bottle, which still had remnants of liquid in it, and walked towards the bed. He held the Dom Perignon above me and emptied the rest over my body. I let out a high-pitched squeal. Then slowly, he eased himself down on top of me. Gently, teasingly, he began to lick my body all over with a sure knowledge and instinct. He started at my neck and travelled down, kissing and lapping every crevice with relish. As he gorged himself on my flesh, I marvelled at how soft and supple his lips were, how warm.
