I admire Chan. He’s a terrible monster but he’s only rinsing the willing. He got out of finance before the huge crash a few years ago, and he tapped straight into the wellness market – using that banker’s brain to speculate on what the masses would want in a time of financial insecurity. And he has made millions from it – correctly guessing that the herd would want to treat themselves in small but comforting ways, find peace of mind in platitudes and crucially, look better. You can’t get a mortgage anymore, but you can wear shiny leggings with that new-found confidence.
So the MM ideology is available to the masses, but it relies on looking exclusive. Chan knew from the beginning that the scheme would only work if the beautiful people repped it for him. Every year around May, he invites 100 of the most influential ‘movers and shakers’ to come to his private retreat in Ibiza where he hosts a weekend of exercise classes, juice workshops, and positivity seminars. Every year without fail, the Daily Mail and other celeb sniffing publications breathlessly scour the Instagram accounts of said movers, grabbing screenshots of the beautiful people doing sun salutations by an infinity pool, hugging each other in a tangled mass of undernourished bronzed limbs and generally gushing about how much they’ve learnt about their soul from the three-day trip. There is a party on the last night, where, according to a girl I know who works in beauty PR, copious amounts of alcohol and drugs get mixed into the fruit smoothies, everyone gets completely off their faces and all phones are banned. I suppose this last-night blow-out acts as an apology for all the dull hikes they’ve been forced to do over the previous two days.
Guess who was going on the next retreat?
I found out about Bryony’s plans because my boring mum Instagram account follows nearly everyone that she does and I keep tabs. Months ahead and Chan was already busy teasing his 8 million followers with photos of the planned Ibiza weekend, using the dubious hashtag #cleanhedonism below photos of yoga mats neatly aligned on the sundeck and video clips of white linen clad staff mowing lawns. Below an image of neon balloons tied to a tree, Bryony had posted a comment. Can’t wait to join my soul tribe.
I got busy. The weekend itself would be off limits but the party sounded like something I could work with. I looked around to find out who organised the last-night party – not an impossible task, since everyone tags everyone on social media as a way of getting discounts for genuine work. Sure enough, the event was run by a company based in Watford called Bespoke Bangers. Such genuine Balearic vibes. I’d wait-staffed many events in my early twenties and felt confident that I’d be in with a shot at serving a bunch of coked-up models. There was an application form on their website and I filled it out, emphasising the many exclusive （and imagined） parties I’d worked at. I stressed that I’d be working in Ibiza around the dates of the party, and explained that I’d heard that they had clients on the island and I was looking for extra shifts. Someone called Sasha emailed back within twenty-four hours, asking for a video chat which I assumed was to make sure that I looked attractive enough for the gig. It was fine by me – a fake name covered me, and I wouldn’t be stupid enough to send over a photo which could be easily retrieved.
I slapped on make-up for the chat, darkening my brows and applying red lipstick, two things which change the face subtly but effectively. Sasha called ninety minutes later than suggested, which meant I had to hop off a bus and dash into a coffee shop to take the call. She was brusque and decisive, asking me to do some London shifts over the next week to ensure that I was going to be a good match for the company. The whole call took less than five minutes, I’d been right about appearance being the main purpose of it. We agreed that I’d work an event at the Shard the following Tuesday. Details were vague but it was an event for a well-known YouTuber who was launching a self-tanning product. I was to get there at 5 p.m. and wear black trousers – a shirt would be provided.
‘Don’t look at the guests unless you’re offering them a top-up – nobody wants a creepy waitress getting starry-eyed,’ Sasha said as she typed on her keyboard, taking her own advice about eye contact.
The event went smoothly. I had to rush from work, another day knocking off early but what else could I do? The room was bathed in peachy light, with flower arrangements dotted about the space and goody bags stacked under tables weighed down with biscuits iced with the brand logo. It was far from packed, but everyone was eagerly taking selfies with the host, who seemed pleased with the guests busy livestreaming the wall of balloons. I poured champagne and kept my head suitably bowed. Not that I recognised a single one of these people. The Warhol prediction about the future of fame has been completely gazumped by the rise of online personalities. Fifteen minutes seems oddly quaint when you see these empty-headed kids desperately trying to make a video go viral every single day.