Bret Vincent is Dead

by Tanith Morse

  ‘I can’t believe I’m lying here with you,’ I sighed. ‘It feels like a dream.’

  Bret didn’t answer. He gently stroked my hair. I listened to the sound of his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then he chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was just thinking about something Beth said. About how when you were kids, you used to tell boys you were saving yourself for me. Pretty ironic, isn’t it?’

  I gave his nipple a little pinch. ‘Shush.’

  ‘Seriously, I think that’s really cute. It’s nice to know that you were so devoted to me.’

  A smile tugged at my lips. ‘Well, it was a long time ago.’ I put emphasis on the word ‘long.’

  Bret cracked up.

  I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  When I woke up it was late afternoon. I looked across at the empty pillow next to me. Bret had gone. Throwing back the covers, I frantically switched on the light and stepped out into the corridor. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Bret hadn’t left yet. Thank God.

  I went back into the bedroom and checked the time on my mobile. It was quarter to three. There was a voicemail from William (which I didn’t bother listening to) but no missed calls from Alice, so I assumed I still had some time to kill before we were due to return to the police station. I can’t say I was sorry. I wanted as much time with Bret as possible before he flew out, and, to be perfectly honest, last night’s ordeal seemed like an inconvenience. I wished to God it hadn’t happened so that I could have a clear schedule.

  Suddenly I realised how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten anything since the melted Kit Kat Alice had bought me from the kiosk in A&E. I went to the kitchen, rustled around in the fridge and decided on bacon sandwiches.

  By the time Bret returned from the bathroom I had rations of streaky bacon in the fryer. I could sense he was topless without even turning round. I imagined how magnificent he must look, how good he must smell. Sadly, right now all I could smell was the gristle and fat of bacon.

  Silently, he took a seat at the table and watched the back of my head for a while. Watched the bacon spit and crackle. Watched me shake the oil off and wedge them between two slices of wholemeal bread.

  Placing Bret’s sandwich on a plate, I turned round and, without making eye contact, presented it to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t have any ketchup do you?’

  ‘Er, no, we’re out. Sorry.’

  ‘Mayo?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Bret took a large bite out of his sandwich, chewed on it. ‘Actually, it kind of tastes better without ketchup. I could get used to this.’

  I nodded and turned back to the cooker to start frying more bacon. He attempted to make light-hearted conversation, but I could sense a dark undercurrent. His mouth was not saying what his eyes were. I swallowed hard, breathed in, and tried to focus on the task at hand. I wanted him so bad it hurt. I feared I wouldn’t be able to eat, wouldn’t be able to keep anything in my stomach, much as I wanted to. When I finally sat down with my sandwich I nibbled at the corners like a mouse.

  When we’d finished eating, I stacked up the dishes. Took them over to the sink. I turned on the tap and filled the bowl with lukewarm water to let them soak.

  Then, out of nowhere, he came behind me and swung his fist up against my leg so fast it almost knocked me over. I veered forward onto the sink, splashed water over my blouse. Then, as if gripped by some sudden, mad hunger, Bret grabbed me roughly by the waist and started tearing off my blouse, my skirt, my underwear. I turned round and we kissed each other passionately. Frantically. I undid his flies, pulled down his trousers, let my hands wander. Surrendering to the violence of our desire, he bent me over the sink with the water still running and fucked me hard. Strong, savage thrusts. Thrusts that made me scream and beg for more. This was absolute, unadulterated pleasure. We changed positions. I closed my legs around his back, accompanying him in his up and down movements, spurring him on. At length, we both exploded in a chorus of languorous moans.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Four weeks later I found out I was pregnant. I wish I could say that I embraced the news with jubilation, but sadly, this was far from the case. As I watched the positive test result materialise in the Clearblue indicator, my heart almost stopped. Much as I knew it was a possibility, nothing ever really prepares you for the reality of motherhood.

  Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Bret and I had never taken precautions during sex. At the age of forty-one, I am ashamed to say that the thought of contraception had never even entered my head. I was so caught up in the heat of the moment, in the romance of it all, that it was like I had taken the possibility of getting knocked-up out of the equation.

  I took the test in the work toilets during a tea break. I had been feeling nauseous for a while, but hadn’t instantly linked it to pregnancy. It was only when I’d mentioned it to Beth and she’d joked about me being in the ‘family way’ that I’d given it serious consideration.

  The first person I told about my dilemma was Alice. Unified by our mutual nightmare in the tunnel, the two of us had formed a closer acquaintance at work. She sought me out at lunch times, made a special effort to say hello and generally asked about my well-being. So it was little surprise that my vacant eyes and terse demeanour should come under her scrutiny.

  As I sat miserably in the toilet cubicle, my self-pitying whimpers were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door.

  ‘Maddy, are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?’

  Mastering my tears, I tried to pacify her by saying that my cold had flared up again. It was nothing, really. I was fine.

  But it was no good. Alice could tell there was more, much more, that I wasn’t saying.

  When I finally opened the door, I collapsed into her arms. Sobbed my heart out. Then it all came flooding out in a jumble of words. I was pregnant, scared and confused.

  Alice’s response was astoundingly calm and supportive.

  ‘Oh that’s fantastic news! What are you crying for? A baby! How lovely.’

  How lovely indeed. Oh, it wasn’t that I had reservations about keeping the child – far from it; I had always been staunchly against abortion. No, what bothered me was the terror of being alone. The terror of Bret’s reaction. Wondering whether he would abandon me. No matter how many times a man may say he loves you, the imminent prospect of children has a way of bringing a much needed reality check to proceedings. What would he say when I told him? Would he be supportive? Understanding? Want me to keep it?

  All of these thoughts were swimming around in my head as Alice continued to congratulate me. I smiled weakly, wiped away my tears. She was right. A child was a blessing and regardless of the outcome with Bret, I should be grateful. Madeline Smith, who had once thought she’d die alone and childless had just been given a wonderful gift. A new lease of life.

  ‘How far gone do you think you are?’ Alice asked presently.

  That was a very good question. Bret had been gone for just under a month and the last time we’d made love was the day before he’d flown out with Panelli, so I knew I couldn’t be that far along.

  ‘You should probably take a second test, just to be sure,’ Alice continued. ‘I mean, pregnancy tests are usually reliable, but you never know, do you?’

  This was yet more good advice. What would I have done without her in my hour of need? After swearing Alice to secrecy, I took a second test at lunchtime, which confirmed that I was indeed pregnant. I was blown away; like the veil of denial had finally been lifted. My fairytale with Bret had come crashing down to reality.

  I spent the rest of the day deliberating about my future. Thinking about Bret and this little seed inside of me - not yet developed but already, irrevocably a part of me. I fantasised about what the child might look like.

  With these thoughts came another feeling. A feeling of ca
lm. This darling, darling child growing inside of me would be my saviour; my reason for living. Even if I lost Bret, I would still have a part of him with me forever.

  At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself as I stared blankly at my computer screen. I shook my head. Who was I kidding? Yes, I wanted this baby, but I wanted Bret too. I wanted them both desperately. And why shouldn’t I? I wanted, needed my fairytale ending.

  After work, I passed by the Newsagents to pick up a Mars bar and a copy of Friday’s Guardian. It made for interesting reading: the Academy Award nominees had just been announced and Bret was up for Best Actor. A triumphant smile crept across my face. So, Pantelli was halfway to winning his bet. I was filled with pride. Bret had finally been nominted!

  I got on my train and continued grinning at no one in particular. The man sitting opposite looked at me like I was crazy. People rarely smile at each other on the Tube and those that do are considered mildly unhinged.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned, my mind a torrent of indecision. What to tell Bret. How to tell Bret. Before he’d left for Brazil, he’d promised to stay in regular contact with me. Promised to keep me updated on everything. When he’d first arrived at his destination, he had sent me his number but advised that we should only communicate via text because of Pantelli’s watchful eye. Up until now, Bret had been true to his word, sending me declarations of love on a daily basis. His messages usually came at night, and were a source of great comfort to me. Knowing that Bret was on the other side of the world thinking about me gave me hope of a reconciliation. Hope for our future together.

  Now I agonised about whether it was sensible to break the news about my pregnancy to him via text. It seemed like a terribly impersonal way to communicate something so important. I really felt that I should tell him face to face, to assess his reaction. But how?

  I decided to sleep on it. Perhaps in the morning I’d get a better perspective on things. The next day, I did something I don’t usually do; I decided to ask my big sister for advice. I needed to get a second opinion. I wouldn’t tell Beth the whole story, of course. Just enough to get the general idea of how to play it. After all there was times I just had to admit my sister knew more about men than me.

  So I tagged along to a kid’s birthday party that Beth and Vicky were going to on Saturday. In the past, I’d avoided such invitations like the plague, simply for the fact that I always felt like the childless maiden aunt. Surrounded by so many kids, the small talk with their parents inevitably turned to when I was going to have my own: Didn’t I like children and wasn’t forty leaving it a bit late to get started? Etc., etc. These were the sorts of questions I dreaded; they made me feel inadequate. Like a leper incapable of bringing anything remotely normal to the table.

  Today, however, the situation was very different. Now I could look around at all these children’s happy, smiling faces and their parents’ smug ones, without a sense of isolation. I could smile back munificently, secure in the knowledge that I too would soon be joining the exclusive club of motherhood.

  The party started at one and was over by three. A jovial time was had by all, despite the weather being shit (intermittent drizzle). Some of the parents lagged behind afterwards for canapés and wine, but tellingly, I steered clear of the alcohol. However, the real revelation was how well I got along with Vicky. Children have a way of sensing your dislike, your intolerance of them, no matter how well you try to mask it. With Vicky, it was almost like she had been acting up to my low expectations, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Now when I gazed at her my heart was filled with love and she reciprocated this: I saw only her pretty face and Shirley Temple curls. Her strength and feistiness were a blessing not a curse. And for the first time, I acknowledged how much she looked like my late mother.

  I finally managed to corner Beth alone as she helped fold up the garden chairs and clear away the plates.

  ‘What time are we leaving?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, not long to go now, Maddy. I suppose you’ve been terribly bored. It’s not really your scene, is it?’

  ‘No, no it’s been lovely actually. I’ve really enjoyed myself. It’s just there’s some stuff I need to talk to you about – in private.’

  Beth raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’m intrigued. Well, no problem darling, we’ll make a move as soon as I’ve taken this stuff in.’ She disappeared into the house with two fold-up chairs.

  We drove back to her house in silence, which was unusual for Beth. I think she sensed there was something serious I needed to talk about. When we got back, it had well gone four. After putting Vicky to bed for a nap, Beth opened a bottle of wine for us in the living room.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Are you on a diet or something?’ she chuckled.’ I noticed you didn’t have anything at the party. You’re being really good, Mads. Wine’s got sooo many calories, hasn’t it?’ She glanced down at her swollen stomach, patted it through her jumper. ‘Actually, I could probably do with going on a diet myself. I’ve put on so much weight since Christmas it’s unreal.’

  ‘I’m not on a diet! I’m pregnant,’ I blurted. There just didn’t seem any other way of getting it out.

  Beth stared at me, covered her mouth, then flung her arms round me.

  ‘Oh my God, darling, that’s marvellous! I can’t believe this. What wonderful, wonderful news!’

  After a couple of seconds, we drew apart, held each other at arms’ length. Beth’s face was clouded with reproach. ‘Darling, you’re very naughty. How long have you been keeping this secret from me?’

  ‘Not long. I only found out yesterday.’

  ‘And I suppose David’s the father?’

  I nodded. Who else?

  ‘Does he know?’

  I hesitated, dropped my shoulders. ‘Not yet. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about Beth. He’s away on business in Brazil at the moment.. I don’t know how to break it to him. I’ve been thinking of phoning him but really feel this is something I should do face-to-face. What do you think?’

  ‘When are you expecting him back?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks.’ I corrected myself. ‘No, actually, probably two.’

  Beth furrowed her brow, got up from the table and started repositioning the sofa cushions. My sister always fidgeted when she was perplexed about something. At length, she stopped in the middle of the room and looked at me.

  ‘I would tell him sooner rather than later. You don’t want it playing on your mind darling, stressing you out. And besides, he’s got a right to know, Mads. In fact, he needs to know so that he can send you some money, help to support you.’ She shook her head, tutted. ‘You’re quite a dark horse, aren’t you? I didn’t even know the two of you were shagging!’

  I coloured up, tried to talk about something else but my sister was having none of it. ‘So when exactly did you unlock David’s chastity belt? Have I missed something here? I thought you said the man was frigid!’

  I rolled my eyes exasperatedly. ‘Come on Beth, you know I don’t like talking about stuff like that.’

  Beth smiled broadly, didn’t say anything. Then she changed the subject. Started fussing over me, giving me the low-down on her pregnancy, her bizarre cravings and the agony of the birth itself. She didn’t make it sound like very much fun. Finally before I left, she forced a stack of parenting books on me.

  When I got home, I sent Bret a text message informing him of my pregnancy. All I could do now was wait.

  * * *

  I didn’t hear back from him the next day. Or the day after. In fact, there was complete and utter silence. I tried to remain calm, assuming that he probably just needed time to process it.

  I waited four days, sent a follow-up message asking if he had got the first one, repeated my baby news. When I didn’t get a response this time, I grew very despondent. Agonised over it, couldn’t concentrate on anything. What did Bret’s silence mean? Had he abandoned me, gone off of me?

  What made matters w
orse was that Beth kept calling me, nagging me about it. ‘Darling, this is a scandal. He should get back to you.’

  Sometimes I just wanted to pick up the phone and call him. Hear his voice. But I didn’t dare. I had promised him I wouldn’t and there was no way I could go back on that, no matter how desperately I wanted to. And anyway, there could be loads of reasons why I hadn’t heard back from him: maybe he’d lost his phone, or maybe Pantelli was keeping a closer eye on him than usual. I tried to delude myself, tried to keep upbeat about the situation, but deep down I was growing more and more anxious.

  On the weekend before Oscar night, Beth and I paid our yearly visit to our parent’s grave - a chance to pay our respects. Reflect about their lives and ours. We got to Grange Park Cemetery at twelve-thirty and stood before Mum and Dad’s gravestones in the late-afternoon sun, our hearts fit to burst; listening to the wind blowing through the trees. For a second the two of us stood with our eyes closed, thinking about the past. Then I looked across at my sister. Her face was riddled with emotion. She wiped away a tear, tried to put on a brave face.

  ‘Do you remember that time Dad dressed up as Elvis for Mum’s fortieth?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I laughed, ‘and he sung Hound Dog. It was hilarious.’

  ‘Actually didn’t he sing Love Me Tender?’

  ‘No, no, definitely Hound Dog. Don’t you remember when he started dancing on the table and fell off?’

  Beth chuckled. ‘Oh yeah. That was classic.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I miss them so much, Mads. Sometimes it’s like I can’t breathe.’

  ‘I know . . .’ We both fell silent again. I watched Vicky tearing up ferocious tufts of grass and bellowing at the top of her lungs. I smiled indulgently. Sweet, precious little Vicky. It was like watching the reincarnation of Mum.

  ‘It’s over with Phil.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We’re divorcing.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’