sleeves, catches my eye with a murderous expression on her face, and I know that she is going to have to clean up their mess. Women always do.
I turn back to Lachlan.
“I have, actually,” I say. “Have you ever heard of Vanessa Liebling?”
* * *
—
Vanessa Liebling. A name and face that I’ve followed for twelve years, although she didn’t materialize on social media until four years ago. An heiress from the West Coast Liebling clan, one of those old moneyed families with their fingers jammed in lots of pies, from real estate to casinos. Instead of going into the family business, however, Vanessa’s made a career as an “Instagram fashion influencer.” In English: She travels the world taking photos of herself in dresses that cost more than the annual income of the women who sewed them. For this dubious skill set—wearing Balmain in Bahrain, Prada in Prague, Celine in Copenhagen—she has a half-million followers. She’s dubbed her Instagram feed V-Life.
Study her Instagram feed—as I have, in detail—and you’ll see that the earliest posts on her account are your standard rich-girl fare: loving (if blurry) snapshots of her new Valentino bag; close-up selfies of herself hugging her Maltipoo, Mr. Buggles; an occasional shot of the New York skyline from the window of her Tribeca loft. And then, fifty posts in, having likely realized the career-changing potential of being Instagram-famous, the quality of her photos improves dramatically. Suddenly, they are no longer selfies. Instead, another person is taking the pictures, probably a photo assistant paid to document her every wardrobe change and sip of macchiato. There is Vanessa, strolling through SoHo with Mr. Buggles, holding a fistful of helium balloons. There is Vanessa, in the front row of a Chanel fashion show, wearing sunglasses in the dark. There is Vanessa in a red silk dress, posing next to a snaggletoothed sticky-rice vendor in Hanoi: Vietnamese people are so colorful and authentic! (Dress by #gucci, sandals by #valentino.)
Often, she travels to these exotic locales with other expensively clad women, a network of fellow influencers she’s dubbed her #stylesquad. There are hundreds—thousands!—of other women on Instagram doing the exact same thing she does; she is by no means among the highest profile, nor the most ostentatious, but she’s clearly found her audience. And an income stream, too, as she starts shilling jewelry lines and bottled green juices in sponsored posts.
A handsome boyfriend appears, usually in exuberant clinches, as if to prove to her followers how much he really adores her. The dog gets his own hashtag. Meanwhile, she grows skinnier and skinnier, her tan darker and darker, her hair more and more blond. Eventually, a diamond appears on her ring finger as she peers coyly through her fingers at the camera. Guys, she writes, I have news. There are photos of the interior of an exclusive bridal salon; her eyes peeking over the top of a flower arrangement. I’m thinking peonies.
But then, starting last February, the tone of her account suddenly shifts. There’s a close-up snapshot of a man’s hand, liver-spotted with age and resting on the edge of a hospital bed. The caption reads: My poor daddy, RIP. Then, for a few weeks, nothing, just a note: Sorry guys, taking some family time, back soon. When she returns, the photos of her outfits—black now, lots of black—are interspersed with generic inspirational quotes. Nothing is impossible—the word itself says “I’m possible!” The only person you should strive to be better than is the person you were yesterday. Happiness is not something ready-made; it comes from your own actions.
The ring has disappeared from her left hand.
And then, finally, there’s a shot of her Manhattan loft, stripped of furniture, floors piled high with boxes. Guys: It’s time for a new adventure. I’m moving back to my family’s historic vacation home in Lake Tahoe. I’m going to fix it up while spending some “me time” in great Mother Nature! Stay tuned for my new adventures!
* * *
—
For the last few years, I’ve watched all this from afar, judging her with distaste. She was a spoiled trust fund kid, I told myself. Not terribly bright, skilled at nothing but self-aggrandizement, leveraging her own insider access to get more of everything