Palm Royal | The underbelly of high society

I have colleagues (hello, Chantal Guy!) who devour everything related to Princess Kate Middleton, this bride who would be on the run like Julia Roberts in her cult 1999 film.

For me, it’s high society that fascinates me. Like, compulsively and creepily.

Debutante balls, private school scandals in New England, rivalries between old money and the nouveau riche on the American east coast (The Gilded Age !), real estate in the Hamptons or the “cafe society” of Manhattan, I devour everything that concerns the 1% of the 1%, these disconnected bourgeois who inhabit a parallel world, as ostentatious as it is unattainable.

If I could, I’d live in the glossy pages of a magazine Vanity Fair, but on Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, with a white knit sweater tied around his shoulders at all times. I also have a golden retriever named Poppy and a full wardrobe of chic sailor tops and beige cotton pants, rolled up at the ankles. Discreet luxury would be my mantra between tennis lessons at the country club and a fundraising campaign for pediatric cancer.


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