The doors to the sare tall, unnecessary, and expensive. Like most things here. I’ve come from Singapore. Via a hotel. Via a plane. Via a keynote speech that was mostly nodding and applause, both expertly choreographed. I said some things. They liked the way I said them.
A doorman opens the door. I give him a bill large enough to be remembered but small enough not to be discussed. From somewhere above—glass, balconies, the usual architectural bravado—they’re watching. Waiting. I’m the rumour they’re hoping is true.
Technically, it’s Fashion Week. I’m not in fashion. But someone I know knows someone they know. And I’m useful. In finance. In law. In things that make the glitter stay on. They want me on their side. They’ve heard I’m good. They’re right.
I walk in. The music changes. Something expensive and dramatic and fresh and european-esc. Heads turn—some because they think they should recognize me. Clearly im very important if im walking over to them.
We talk. We drink. We trade business cards. They think im cool. They’re very famous, Very luminous. I’m unbothered (not really). I am very famous too, but in a different way.