bottle of Drano? The ability to convincingly perform authenticity is perhaps the most necessary skill set for my generation. And the image you exude must be compelling, it must be brand-positive, it must be cohesive no matter how fractured your internal dialogue might be, because otherwise your fans will sniff you out as a fraud. I gave a lecture about this at a social media conference called FreshX last year and 250 aspiring influencers (who all looked like variations of me) dutifully wrote it down; and as they did, I felt like I was witnessing my own doom.
Michael and Ashley are standing in front of me on the steps, looking expectant. I return to myself—to elegant hostess—and smile.
“Come on in,” I say. “You’re probably starving. I have a little snack in the kitchen, and then I’ll show you to the cottage.”
And I throw open the doors to Stonehaven, and welcome my guests inside.
* * *
—
I can tell immediately that they are taken aback by Stonehaven: the way they stop, just inside the door, and stare up to the ceiling twenty feet above us (hand-stenciled with an old family crest, as Grandmother Katherine used to point out to her visitors). The grand staircase unrolls its scarlet carpet like a feverish tongue, the crystal chandelier trembles overhead, my Liebling ancestors gaze coolly from the oil portraits that line the hall. Michael drops the suitcases on the inlaid mahogany floor with a little thunk and I wince at the thought of the divots this will leave in the wood.
“Your house…” Ashley says, emotion naked on her face. She gestures with a finger as if drawing a circle around the foyer. “You didn’t mention this in the rental listing. Wow.”
I turn and follow her gaze up the stairs, as if seeing it all for the first time. “Well. You know. I didn’t want to advertise it. Might attract the wrong kind of people.”
“Oh, of course. A lot of creeps and weirdos on the Internet,” she says, her lips twitching up into a smile.
“I’ve encountered a lot of them,” I say. Then, realizing—“Oh, I hope you don’t think I mean you.”
“Oh, we’re bang-on the wrong kind of people, true enough.” Michael carefully wipes his hands on his jeans, rocks back on the heels of his sneakers.
I’ve just noticed something else. “You’re English,” I say to Michael.
“Irish, actually,” he replies. “But I’ve been in the States a long time.”
“Oh, I love Ireland. I was in Dublin just last year.” Was I? Or was that Scotland? It’s all a blur, sometimes. “Where is your family from?”
He makes a funny little dismissive gesture. “Small village you wouldn’t have heard of.”
I lead the way through the grand foyer and into the formal parlor. Ashley’s gaze flicks with disinterest across the objects we pass, as if she is unconcerned about the opulence of her surroundings; but I can see something alert in her eyes. I wonder what Stonehaven looks like to her; I wonder what her own upbringing was like. Probably modest, judging by her dirty tennis shoes and her generic-brand performance fleece. Or is she one of those trustafarian types, whose bohemian appearance belies the size of their pocketbooks? She isn’t gawking, which suggests she’s comfortable with money (a relief, honestly). I can’t quite put my finger on who she might be; and yet every time I glance her way she is smiling at me, which is really the most important thing.
She rests her fingertips gently atop an inlaid sideboard, some ancient monstrosity that my grandmother always said was the most valuable piece in the house. “So many antiques,” she murmurs.
“I know, it’s a lot, right? I just inherited the house. Sometimes it feels like living in a museum.” I laugh, as if the house is just a quaint bauble that shouldn’t overwhelm them.
Ashley spins to look at me. “It’s stunning. You should feel very lucky to live with such beautiful things. What a glorious privilege.” In her voice I hear a rebuke, but she’s still smiling so I’m not sure what to think