[Paris Hotel Ritz, L'Espadon restaurant. Curtains are parted. Evening clouds drifting over the Seine and candles on tables cast a pinkish glow over the white-jacketed waiters, tablecloths, and summer-formal diners. Morcheeba's "Over and Over" plays eerily on invisible speakers (I'm falling over and over and over and over again now/ Calling over and over and over and over again...). Figurski and Vieuchanger stand near the arch, then move towards table.]
Figurski: It's the night you die!
Vieuchanger [tugs at fashionable sweater, adjusts large sequined bag over shoulder]: Who am I supposed to be?
Figurski: You're Princess Diana of course.
Vieuchanger: Right. And you — you are ...
Figurski: Dodi al-Fayed.
Vieuchanger: My boyfriend. On the Holodeck on acid, you can face death over and over again.
Figurski [affecting Anglo-Arab accent]: I say Di, now don't you think —
Vieuchanger: You can stage your death and your loved ones', practice looking death in the eye or replay a previous scene when you —
Figurski [menacing]: You don't need the Holodeck for that.
Vieuchanger [studies Figurski's face]: From a Moroccan woman's perspective, you know, North Americans have very ... pale and runny eyes. Soft, like eggs. Not made for the rigors of the South. So pale, so ... pastel!
Figurski: You're not going to be trying any tricks like at Findhorn here tonight, are you Your Highness?
Vieuchanger [smiling sweetly]: Come on Dodi, you're supposed to be doting.