by Tanith Morse
Beth glanced at me, her lips trembling. ‘I tried to make it work. I tried to put the past behind me but I can’t. The trust is gone. The sparkle has gone and I can’t get it back. It’s over.’
I stood very still, processing this information. ‘So what are you going to do? With the house, I mean. Are you kicking him out again?’
‘I don’t know. I want a fresh start. That house holds too many painful memories. We’re thinking of selling it and splitting the proceeds. I think I fancy living by the sea. Perhaps Brighton or somewhere. The sea air will be good for Vicky too.’
I gazed into the distance. ‘I understand. I’ll miss you if you move out of London, but I understand.’
She held my hand. ‘Brighton’s not so far. It’s only a short train journey. And you can stay weekends. It’s not going to change anything between us, I promise you.’
I nodded.
‘Darling, can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have you heard back from David yet?’
‘Er, no, I - ’
Beth squeezed my hand more tightly. ‘I just want you to know that if anything happens, if David let’s you down in any way, I’m always here for you darling. You won’t have to bring up the baby on your own.’
‘Beth, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I mean . . .’ My voice trailed off. I struggled to articulate what was in my head.
‘Darling, all I’m saying is that I’ll support you no matter what. You’ll always have a place with me and Vicky if anything goes wrong. When the baby is born, you can move in with us and we’ll bring up our kids together. We don’t need men. We can survive on our own.’
‘But David hasn’t abandoned me, Beth. Okay, so I haven’t heard back from him yet. But I have faith he’ll be there for me. He has to be.’
My sister looked at me sceptically. ‘If he isn’t, then you’ve got me. I want you to know that.’
I smiled blandly. ‘Thank you.’ The level of Beth’s support touched me.
‘Darling . . .’
‘What?’
‘There’s something else you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’ I glanced at her fearfully. Did she know about Bret? No, how could she?
My sister stared at me for a couple of seconds. Her eyes were reading me, trying to work me out. ‘Just my intuition, that’s all. I feel like there’s something you’re hiding from me. Something you haven’t told me. We never used to keep secrets from each other. I know you. I know you well. There’s something’s going on, isn’t there? You never were a very good liar.’
A lump formed in the back of my throat. Vicky had started rolling around on the grass, waving her arms erratically, pretending she was a choo choo train.
I struggled to keep my head clear. ‘Honestly, there’s nothing I’m keeping from you. If there were I would tell you. I trust you implicitly.’
‘Are you sure? You know you can trust me with a secret, don’t you? Anything you tell me would be in the strictest confidence.’
For a moment, I agonized whether or not to tell her the truth. Get the whole thing off my chest. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t. I could never betray Bret. So I nodded and assured her again that everything was fine. It wasn’t. But that was what I had to keep telling myself. I had to keep my delusion alive.
Chapter Twenty-four
When it came to Oscar night, I was so down about everything I couldn’t even be bothered to tune in. Due to the time difference, the ceremony at the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood was taking place in the early hours of Monday morning, UK time. To have watched it first-hand, I’d have needed to stay up all night and I had to be up early for work.
Anyway, from previous experience I’d found watching the whole show to be a tedious affair. Most of the ceremony was spent on what the public perceived to be the lesser categories: best costume design, best make-up and so forth. Going the whole hog meant twiddling your thumbs for ages, listening to unfamiliar names being called out, praying for the best actor/best picture awards. I’m sure that Angelo Kowalski’s friends and family were ecstatic he did Oscar winning sound mixing for Electro City, but their sentiments probably weren’t shared by anyone outside the film industry. The harsh reality was, despite filmmaking being a collaborative progress, often involving the work of hundreds of people, the average Joe on the street was only concerned about the actors: the faces they saw on billboards. Nobody cared who did the special effects that made the Titanic sink – all they wanted to see was Leonardo and Kate getting it on.
It was a nightmare getting to work in the morning. As usual there were inexplicable delays on the Northern Line. The train stalled at Moorgate for no apparent reason, then after successfully trudging through two more stations, stopped again, much to the chargrin of the disgruntled commuters. One man looked like he was going to have a fit.
When I finally got to the office, I found the place eerily quiet. Usually by nine o’clock there were at least ten or twelve people at their desks taking calls. Not today.
After I’d hung up my coat and taken my headset out of my locker, I spied William by the water cooler, pouring himself a drink.
‘Where is everybody?’ I asked.
He shot me a disinterested glance. Took a large gulp of water from his polystyrene cup, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘They’re all in Meeting Room One. Apparently there’s something on the TV they’re all harping on about. Go in now and you might just catch it.’
Hurriedly, I made my way to the meeting room. Why was my heart beating so fast? I opened the door and found everyone huddled round the TV, their eyes wide as saucers.
‘What is it?’ I whispered to Alice as I took a seat next to her.
‘Sshh, just watch. I can’t believe this.’
I turned to the screen and saw they were tuned to the BBC breakfast news. There was a female reporter speaking outside the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood. The woman’s face was agitated, excited. Before I could catch what she was saying, the transmission cut to footage of Whoopi Goldberg on the theatre stage, preparing to announce Academy Award nominations. Whoopi looked magnificent in what I can only describe as a fabulous multi-coloured, multi-feathered prom dress.
‘It’s been quite a night, hasn’t it folks? Well, it’s finally here - the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The nominees for Best Actor . . .’ She paused and began fiddling with the cream-coloured envelope in her hand. Then she stopped, stared at the camera and pulled a funny face. ‘You know what? I think we should vote for it by applause! Let the people judge.’
Boisterous cheers of approval reverberated around the theatre. Pausing between each name for dramatic effect, Whoopi then read through a list of the five nominees. The loudest cheers erupted when Bret’s name was called.
‘And the Oscar goes to . . . Bret Vincent!’
The whole place went wild. The camera intercut between emotional shots of Bret’s family and Woody Allen (who I later discovered won Best Picture for Everybody Loves Sid). Then, as Whoopi joined in the crescendo of applause, Maria Esposito and Bret’s agent Ted Cohen stepped up to collect the award on his behalf.
Maria looked stunning in a flesh-coloured Valentino dress that gave the illusion she was completely naked. It reminded me of the dress that Monroe wore when she sung Happy Birthday Mr President. Maria’s face was contorted with emotion as she and Ted stood for a couple of seconds basking in the overwhelming response from the audience.
The beauty of the woman was astounding.
Taking the microphone from Whoopi, and clutching the gold statuette in her hand, she addressed the auditorium: ‘You know, Bret winning this is so monumental. During his life, the one thing he always wanted was an Oscar. It was his Holy Grail, his impossible dream and now . . . now that dream has finally been realised. Sadly, he isn’t here to . . .’ Her voice started to break. Whoopi helped to steady her. Biting back tears, Maria managed to continue, ‘you know, it’s funny. I feel like Bret’s here,
in this very room. Everywhere. I feel his energy, his vibrancy, his creativity. He has left us an enduring legacy that will live on in every single one of us. And I know, if he were here with us tonight, he’d say thank you to everyone that helped to make his dream come true. So, on behalf of Bret Vincent, the love of my life . . . thank you all. And, more importantly, thank you to the fans, who I know will continue to keep his flame burning. Bret, you’re a legend. I love you.’
The crowd stamped and applauded. Some stood, wiped away tears. A gentle smile played on Maria’s exquisite lips. However, I could detect a steely determination behind her glacial eyes. Was she really in mourning, or just a brilliant actress? It was hard to tell.
Then suddenly, a voice rang out above the applause. A loud, clear voice. A familiar voice. ‘That was brilliant, kid! Absolutely brilliant. You almost fooled me. Almost, but not quite.’
A deadly hush descended over the room. Suddenly, the camera cut to a scruffy-looking man rushing towards the stage. Whoopi frowned and muttered something inaudible.
A look of confusion spread across Maria’s face. Ted turned to her and mouthed, ‘What the hell . . .?’
Then, the camera cut back to the man, who I now saw to be none other than David Powell!
Alice started tugging my sleeve like she needed to go pee or something. ‘Oh my God, Maddy! That’s the guy from the tunnel, isn’t it? The guy who saved us! Oh wow.’
I didn’t answer. My heart was in my mouth. The blood had frozen in my veins. I was hypnotised by what was unfolding on screen.
Taking the microphone from Maria, David threw a folksy arm around Ted’s shoulder and addressed the audience. ‘Do you know who this guy is? Well, if you don’t, I’ll tell you. His name is Ted Cohen and he’s a big-shot agent. Did anyone know that Ted not only manages Bret Vincent’s affairs but also this lovely lady here, Maria Esposito?’
There were mumbles of indignation from the crowd.
Ted looked constipated. Clearly, he wanted to emancipate himself from David’s vice-like grip.
David smiled broadly. A white, toothy smile. So, he’s put the veneers back in, I thought.
He turned back to Maria. ‘This lady’s the one who truly deserves the Oscar. She just put on the performance of her life, pretending to be sorry about her fiancé’s death.’
Maria let out a little shriek of rage, folded her arms.
David went on. His tone was laced with sarcasm. ‘Yeah, Maria’s really sorry about Bret’s death. So sorry that she had to screw Ted in her fiancé’s bed the week after he died. Nice to know that you and Bret’s love had such “an enduring legacy.”’ He spoke the last words with contempt.
Whoopi covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Damn, girl! That is so wrong.’
‘None of this is true!’ Maria protested. ‘This man’s crazy. I mean, who the hell is he anyway? He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know Ted . . .’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Frantically, David tore away the mask to reveal his true face.
The room went pin-drop quiet. Somebody screamed, somebody fainted. Whoopi was shaking her head, wide-eyed, murmuring what looked like silent prayers. Maria almost passed out.
After a minute-long eternity, Bret snatched the statuette from Maria’s trembling fingers and stared directly into the camera. There was a look of triumph on his face. A devilish gleam in his eyes.
‘As you can see, Bret Vincent is very much alive. You know, winning this is so ironic. I’ll never know for sure if my performance was genuinely Oscar worthy, or if you guys just felt sorry for me.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Anyway, I could waste time giving you all some phoney acceptance speech, but I’ve got more important things on my mind. I wanna tell you a story. A story so incredible, it reads like a Hollywood movie script. This story concerns a highly successful actor. A charming, devastatingly handsome actor who, at the age of forty has everything he could want except for one thing – an Oscar. This guy has spent years bustin’ his ass, taking on every role he can get, trying to prove himself to this academy. Trying to prove he has what it takes to be up there with the greats . . . Brando, De Niro, Penn. After a while, a guy can get sick of trying, so this actor decides to fake his own death to see if it will bring him posthumous Oscar glory.’
At this point, Whoopi started walking off stage, shaking her head.
‘Man, this is some crazy shit. Where’s my agent? I didn’t sign up for Punk’d.’
Bret continued: ‘After the media storm has calmed, the actor resurfaces on the other side of the world. In somewhere few people would think to look for him. A place in the UK called Blackwall. It is almost like he is reborn. He takes on a new identity, becomes a different person: a person who is a world away from the hotshot celebrity everyone knows him to be. It will be his career defining performance.’ Bret paused for breath, cleared his throat. ‘After a while, he starts to see his old life for the shallow bullshit it was. He sees the bloodsuckers and the hangers-on and realises just how unhappy he was. This actor starts to enjoy his newfound anonymity; enjoys the fact that he is now free to do exactly as he chooses. He can sleep with women without worrying they’ll sell him out for a fast buck. He can go to dinner without the paparazzi tailing him. He can make a fresh start. And now this brings me to what I really want to talk to you about . . .’
‘What’s he doing?’ Alice gasped. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Shut up, shut up!’ Margery snapped. ‘I can’t bloody hear what he’s saying.’
Bret felt around in his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled photograph – of me! The camera zoomed in on a close-up, and I saw it was one of the ones he had taken of me in his living room.
Everybody in the room around me froze. Looked at me. Gasped. I bit down on my lip. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t function. The screen transfixed me.
Bret pressed my photo gently to his lips. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this woman is very special to me. Her name is Madeline Smith, and I met her while I was living in the UK. She is a smart, beautiful, vibrant, sexy woman. And the best cook I’ve ever known. She makes me laugh, she makes me smile, she picks me up when I’m down and most of all . . . she keeps it real. Madeline, if you’re watching this, I want to let you know that I love you. I want the world to know. And . . . will you marry me?’
I could have died.
Margery turned to stone. Her eyes locked with mine, a look of shock, rage and envy combined.
Alice let out a shrill cry and threw her arms around me. ‘Oh my God, oh my God! Maddy, he proposed to you. Bret Vincent just proposed to you!’
Jaiman shook his head. It was like he was in a trance. He just kept looking from the TV to me and then back again, trying to fathom what he’d just seen.
Alice stared at me for a moment. Studied my face. Then, her eyes widened and she started jumping up and down erratically. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, the baby, the baby!’
‘What baby?’ Caroline frowned.
‘Maddy, the baby - your baby . . . it’s Bret’s, isn’t it?’
‘You go, girl!’ Rodney squealed.
I buried my face in my hands. My heart was beating so fast I thought it’d shoot out my chest. It was all too much for me. Totally unreal. A dream come true.
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 (1
989) 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.
Controversy
On Sunday February 27th Bret Vincent was arrested outside the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood and questioned by police for allegedly faking his own death. He has since been released without charge but is currently embroiled in numerous legal battles with his former sponsors Pepsi, Martini and Omega. Vincent is also being sued by the actress Maria Esposito and his former agent Ted Cohen for defamation of character. To date, Vincent’s Oscar acceptance speech in which he appears to confess to faking his own death holds the record for the highest rated US television broadcast of all time with more than 4 billion viewers worldwide.
Personal Life
Bret Vincent is married to Hollywood screenwriter Madeline Smith. They have a son, David.
