Blood diamonds

Every so often, someone comes to town knowing that I, like the Count of Monte Cristo, am imprisoned in my (junior) suite awaiting my destiny. On these occasions, I am called upon to venture out of the hotel (if they only knew what that entailed) and escort them to the better addresses in Paris, which often times are, in fact, the worst depending upon one's perceptions and inclinations.

Earlier today, I was accosted by a meteorically rising starlet with seven major flops to her credit (we have the same agent) interested in purchasing a diamond ring somewhere in the vicinity of the Place Vendôme. I agreed to the task on the promise from The Chad that my next multiple picture deal would not be cross-collateralized.

The joaillier saw right through my act in spite of the Patek Philippe on my wrist and affected not to recognize the actress, if I may use that term, whose beauty is of such an artificial nature that one is constantly surprised when she speaks.

Having selected exactly the right stone (a five karat yellow Princess-cut diamond) after only an hour and a half of viewing (during which she ordered in a snack from the Ritz), she attempted to get Françoise Hardy on the phone for an astrological opinion. Mercifully, Françoise was letting her calls go to voice mail.

About to finalize the transaction by handing over her black Amex, she let loose with, "This isn't a blood diamond, is it? That would be impossible." With a maximum of aplomb, the joaillier countered with, "As you wish, Madame, but it will be half the size for the same price." Thus ended further negative references to blood diamonds and we departed the store and each other; she in a state of short-term euphoria and I in search of a Bellini at the Ritz.

Interestingly, I've never heard anyone ask if they are getting blood gasoline at the pumps.