who: @gracecapell where: antipodean roasters, cinématique society brunch when: late june
Luis Bergé signed and dated his own death certificate when he left Greta standing alone in between the brioche and blinis. The day lily table arrangements were fragrant, but more than anything, the room stunk of avoidance.
To someone who hadn't been trying to pin him down, his absence would be coincidental. Excusable. Technically, Greta wasn't on the guest list, there was no paper trail to suggest that she would be here and he should be elsewhere— which, duh, was the point.
She had never been in the kinds of prestige films (because they were films, not silly little "movies") that conferred Cinématique membership. But she was a friend of a friend of a casting director who had a coveted star pin affixed to his lapel, and he had grandfathered in her attendance.
In the end though, laughing at unfunny jokes and pretending to care about celebrating the 75th anniversary of Blaspheme, a film so old it predated color, just to get her foot in the room had been a useless effort. Somehow Luis had known she would be here, just like he had known that she had called him eight times, left him one voicemail, and five messages with his secretary.
Her mimosa went down with ease and a mutter, bubbles having long gone flat. "What a fat waste of time."