Style of the Girl Who Tripped on the Faux Jordan Belfort's Yacht in Butterfly Heels
One. The art of falling beautifully while social climbing -- in Charlotte Olympia's glittering monarch heels.
She met him over extra-dirty martinis at The Corner Store, which, despite its name, is neither on a corner nor a store. It’s the kind of SoHo spot that’s frequented by mid-30s men in Loro Piana who claim their crypto is “more conceptual” — you get the picture. He’s a finance bro by day, art collector by night. His world revolves around Basel previews, reservation-only auctions, and knowing the difference between Cy Twombly and that TikTok painter who works in neon pastels.
She, of course, works in “luxury brand consulting,” which is really just code for “goes to lunches at Sant Ambroeus with women named Allegra and writes deck copy for brands trying to emulate Loewe.” Mondays are for showroom pulls and schmoozing editors over salad, Thursdays for gifting suite previews, and she once gave advice to an heiress about how to make her handbag line feel more like Celine Autumn/Winter 2010. She has a portfolio, but it’s mostly password-protected. You wouldn’t understand.
Naturally, she was invited to the boat party.
It’s not Jordan Belfort’s yacht, but it’s definitely pretending to be, with white lacquer, a few too many Greek flags for someone who’s never left Sag Harbor, and a suspicious surplus of espresso martinis on deck. But she dresses for the fantasy, not the facts.
She boards in Zimmerman. Obviously. The linen is crisp, the embroidery sheer enough to seem proper and flirty, like she might read Town & Country and listen to trap remixes of Lana Del Rey. Hair is in a soft, undone wave; makeup dewy, with a bold, expensive-looking brow. Accessories are minimal, but meaningful. Maybe a Loewe Puzzle bag, a pair of sculptural gold earrings, and a silk scarf knotted at the wrist — something that whispers “editorial pull,” not “off the rack.” Nails are a neutral, glossy almond.
Her heels are Charlotte Olympia butterfly platforms, purchased from Vestaire, because nothing says “I’m self-made” like an accessory that can no longer be purchased new. (They make a very specific kind of girl feel like they’re flying, even when they’re falling.)
Which, to be fair, she does fall. On the deck. In front of everyone. The butterfly wings snag on the faux-teak railing, and she tumbles. Not tragically, just cinematically. Think: Carolyn Bessette meets a Sofia Coppola slow-motion moment meets Kendall Roy’s Birthday party. Someone gasps. A few shake their heads in disapproval. But she gets up smiling, brushing it off like the champagne she spilled on herself was meant to be there. Like she’s done this before. Because she has.
After they dock, they’ll go to an “art party,” which is really just a tax write-off in a converted Tribeca loft with some strategically placed sculptures and too much Diptyque candle smoke. There will be oysters and a DJ named “Rick” who was once profiled in Dazed and now only plays vinyl. There will be a girl named Clio in vintage Mugler talking about “the gentrification of New York City.” And she’ll be right there, butterfly heels swapped for Manolo mules with less ankle-twisting potential, discussing John Currin with someone who just asked if she went to Brown.
She didn’t. But she almost did - and in this circle, that’s better. It gives you the glow of aspiration, not arrival. A girl who might’ve, could’ve, and didn’t. Just nearly.
And that’s her whole style: nearly unbothered. Nearly scandalous. Nearly on the yacht of someone that matters. But always dressed like she’s the muse, not the mistake.
xx