here were problems with being the daughter of a former it girl. First of all, the designation, which, as her mother grew older, warped slightly across the society pages, affecting her mood. Most people remembered her mother’s modelling stints, brushes with caddish playboys, yachting off Santorini. The requisite sex-tape sloppiness, a public overdose. She was a swan, and even now, S would not relinquish her swan-like ways. The trajectory was not new: this was a grouping of un-distinctive attributes of the ones who came before her, and those who, inevitably, came after. Though what constituted fame in this era had flattened and grown; she was a , she was a , still out six nights a week. Critically, her particular composition of blonde remained. Her thighs stayed coltish, tan and, it was rumoured, insured. There were affairs, couture. Her home was still photographed, notable art on the walls staged with forebodingly uncomfortable furniture and tangles of heirloom objects. She operated a whimsical social media account with questionable punctuation. The fillers were imperceptible.
