She arrived last night with a baise-en-ville big enough to hold wardrobe for the entire cast of the upcoming production of Salomé at the Opéra National de Paris. She does not know half-measures. Neither does she know me as she says I need change. I think I have changed though not necessarily for the better. I made it all the way to Fouquet's on foot the other day but I'm not certain this is an improvement on using the hotel's chauffeured Mercedes. Time will tell.
Yesterday, a fellow offered to buy Oscar, my Ferrari 599. I told him I still needed a few more near-death experiences with the car to be able to complete my memoirs for which my publisher is importuning me to see a manuscript. They are also asking me to change the title from "The Worst Happened, Then We Moved On" to "The Worst Happened, Then I Moved On", but since others were involved in varying degrees I thought they should be acknowledged in the title, at least, if not in the book itself.
My iPhone coach seems to believe only a few of my voice mails were hacked during the period spoken of in the press and publication of these would land only The Chad (my agent) in jail, which is where he currently finds himself in matters unrelated so apparently there's no harm. This is certainly cause for celebration and I believe I'll take She to dinner downstairs at Le Cinq.
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