Her features and proportions were classical-almost anachronistic-with a roundness that would suit Ingres or John Currin. She had a cherubic face with oversize blue eyes and pouty lips. The new arrival, in a clingy black dress and flat Gucci sandals, slid into the banquette. I’d seen that (since changed to had 40K followers. I’d seen her on Instagram, smiling at events, drinking at parties, oftentimes alongside my own friends and acquaintances. She was a stranger to me, and yet not unknown. I can’t remember which arrived first: the expectant bucket of ice and stack of glasses, or “ Anna Delvey”-but I knew that she had appeared and with her came bottle service. two hours before our flight: we were Marrakech-bound. Our errand complete, we climbed back into the car and set off for J.F.K. The bellhops at the Mercer helped us to off-load her bags (all but one), and they checked them away to await Anna’s return. hummed along the cobblestones of Crosby Street as we drove from 11 Howard, the hotel Anna had called home for three months, to the Mercer, the hotel Anna planned to move into when we got back from our trip. Seemingly everything she owned was packed into Rimowa suitcases and stacked in the trunk, just behind our heads. In her signature black athleisure wear and oversize Céline sunglasses, she sat beside me in the S.U.V., pecking at her phone. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a gut feeling about my 30th year: it was going to be special it was going to be good.
According to my closest friends and various suspect Internet sources, turning 29 on Janumarked my golden birthday.
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