Death Logs In by E.J. Simon Page A

wanted to be.”
    Michael turned to Catherine, whose gaze finally turned away from the ocean, “I’m looking forward to this movie.”
    “I hope you will be impressed and that you will see that your money has been well-invested. I am very pleased with what we have shot.” Catherine’s mood seemed to lighten. “And how did you know that I loved Le Bernardin? You know your brother would not like it here. The portions are too small and the people—let’s just say perhaps too polite for Alex.” Catherine appeared at ease, her thoughts of Alex creating a slight smile and a twinkle in her eyes.
    Jennifer burst out laughing. “I really couldn’t see Alex here. He’d be out of this place in five minutes. First of all, he only likes steak, lobster or spaghetti.” Michael noticed her use of the present tense. “Alex has to have what he called ‘a real lobster’—at least three pounds and of course, he only eats the tails.”
    “Also,” Catherine added, “he would never have been comfortable in a French restaurant. The French and Alex would not be good together.”
    “Except, of course, for you.” Jennifer said as she looked at Catherine. “Catherine was Alex’s French exception.”
    As Catherine looked around at the other diners, who were trying to discreetly look at her, her expression changed.
    “What’s wrong, Catherine? What did you see?” Jennifer asked.
    Michael began to turn around, but Catherine put her hand on his arm, “Don’t turn around. It’s someone I know socially from Paris.”
    Jennifer looked around at the other tables. “Oh, not him.” Turning to Michael, she explained, “There’s this guy, Bertrand Rosen, at the table just inside. He’s been staring over here but I didn’t notice who he was until now. Catherine can’t stand him. He talked about financing Mirror Image . We went to dinner with him three times in Paris and then, at the last minute, he backed out of the deal.”
    His name was vaguely familiar to Michael but he couldn’t place it.
    “Sometimes I wish I could have more privacy or at least not be so visible,” Catherine said, clearly annoyed by Rosen’s presence.
    Jennifer gently touched Catherine’s arm. “Oh, Catherine, just a few months ago, you were upset. You said you felt invisible. Now, you’re looking for privacy again.”
    “I know, dear,” Catherine said, “but you are young and American—and I am French. The French are filled with contradictions. French women even more and French actresses even worse. It is impossible to be happy. Perhaps it is not possible to be a woman growing old—and to be happy.”
    “Catherine, you look absolutely stunning. But your beauty transcends your looks.” Michael was struggling to find the perfect compliment.
    Catherine frowned. “You are sweet, Michael. Just like your brother—although so different—but I can assure you, no woman over thirty wants to hear that her beauty transcends her looks. We spend our youth wanting men to desire us for our minds or personality or whatever. But, we spend much of our mature years longing for the time when men just wanted us for our beauty, our face, our breasts, our legs or,” her face broke out in a wide smile as she laughed, “perhaps just for our ass.” They all broke out laughing.
    ___________
    The waiter poured the last of the Veuve Clicquot rosé champagne into Jennifer’s glass. Michael signaled for another bottle and, just as the waiter departed, Bertrand Rosen approached their table.
    Rosen appeared to be in his sixties, balding with grey hair and rimless glasses and a slight paunch. He was dressed in white trousers and a snappy blue sport coat with shiny gold buttons and what appeared to be a family crest embroidered on the breast pocket.
    “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said, looking right at Catherine with his arms spread wide as though waiting for a warm embrace, which, Michael knew, was not about to happen. Then, turning to Jennifer, “Jennifer, my dear, you also