Gwyneth Paltrow stirred. A lilac scented breeze pushed gently at the diaphanous curtains of her castle aerie (two servants stood beneath her castle window, one waving a giant palm frond as the other squeezed a bulb of artisanal lilac oil into the current). The silk sheets felt rough against her pearl white skin, as they always did after having been slept on for more than four hours. She would have to have them replaced; their satin comfort was gone now. Now they were like sandpaper to her temple (body). She thought of the tiny hands of child laborers in China and India, harvesting the silken threads for her midnight cocoon. Surely they would be happier doing something else, like playing, or going to school, or starring in a movie with Robert Downey Jr. She should write them a letter to encourage them to find their true spirit. She should have one of her assistants write them a letter right away.
“Dear child laborers,” it would begin. “Seek your happiness.” Blah blah blah, her assistant would know how to end it. She was always much better at writing letters, and aspirational websites, than Gwyneth.
Gwyenth slipped into her polar bear fur lined slippers and headed to the 4,000 square foot master bathroom to prepare her morning toilette. She rinsed her mouth with calf’s milk and brushed her teeth with fresh mint leaves. She soaked for an hour and a half in the Olympic size Jacuzzi before calling out for the breakfast servant to bring her her egg white omelet with truffle shavings and gold leaf. What many people didn’t realize was that eating gold was actually good for you. Although there were no particular nutritional benefits, it just made you feel good to be able to eat gold. She ate gold at every meal. That would be one of her next newsletters. “Everyone Should Just Eat Gold.”
The omelet was only half finished when Gwyneth pushed the floating tray away, watching it twirl and bob on the Jacuzzi’s eddies of honey foam (she always put honey in her Jacuzzi, which was why she had to take a shower after her bath: to wash the honey off). It had tasted good, and actually she was still hungry, but she had decided she was done with that omelet. “Goodbye, omelet,” she said to the omelet. “Fare thee well on your journey!” The omelet’s fate was now up to the omelet. Gwyneth stepped into the shower and washed the sticky film of honey off of her temple and got dressed in a simple pair of $900 jeans and a down-to-Earth $3,000 t-shirt with holes in it.
Gwyneth spent the next hour fielding phone calls from friends. Oprah wanted to know where to get the perfect mid-century toilet seat, and Stephen Dorff wanted to get caviar soup dumplings, and Jeremy Irons wanted to get his pubic hair beaded, and Gwyneth Paltrow knew all the right answers, which is why she had started her website in the first place. Why should she horde all this important knowledge to herself? It belonged to the world!
A servant (although Gwyneth hated the term, and always referred to them as spiritual assistants) came in to inform her that Jade, her yoga instructor, and Poe, her pilates instructor, had just arrived on the helipad for their mid-morning lessons. Gwyneth nodded and asked how her children were doing. “They’re doing fine, ma’am,” the servant replied. Gwyneth had not seen them in three weeks, but she knew they were in the castle somewhere. “Children are the most precious,” she said, licking the golden nib of a fountain pen and dipping it into a jar of squid ink. “Everyone should eat fountain pen nibs,” she wrote in calligraphy on the back of a Mary Ellen Mark photograph.
Gwyneth Paltrow changed into her work out clothes and worked out and she pictured herself at the bottom of a hill and at the top of the hill was a career as a movie star and a castle of her very own, and Poe said “you don’t seem to have much motivation today,” and Gwyenth said, “hush.”
Chris Martin poked his head in. “Allo!” he said. He was dipping a Lick-Em-Stick into a bag of cocaine. He waved. Gwyneth waved. He left on tour for six months.
Gwyneth blew air kisses to Jade and Poe and returned to the master bathroom to repeat her cleansing process. She got into a fresh pair of $900 jeans, and a somewhat dressier, “afternoon” t-shirt (retail $4,000,000). Her inner aspect growled. She pictured the morning’s egg white omelet sitting in a bay window overlooking its 60 acre ranch in Montana somewhere, away from the silly stresses of modern life. “Where are you now, sweet omelet?” she thought to herself. “I just hope you are happy!” (The omelet was actually soggily disintegrating at the bottom of the Jacuzzi and working its way into the jets and filter and would have to be cleaned out later by one of the younger spiritual assistants, without gloves because Ms. Gwyneth doesn’t believe in gloves, she thinks that’s the way the hands lie, they would later remark to their friends.)
Gwyneth got into her chauffered Bentley hybrid and had her driver (spiritual guide, as she liked to call him) take her to the nearest Michelin 3-star restaurant. It was time to nourish her inner aspect with lunch. On the way, she saw a Gypsy beggar with only one arm and a mangy, flea-ridden dog at his side. The beggar couldn’t have been more than 11. Gwyneth asked the driver to stop, but opened the door before he was able to, and would have stepped out of the moving car if the driver said “why don’t you wait, Ma’am,” and she did wait, because she liked to condescendingly pretend that she and her servants were equals. “Oh I’m sure you’re right,” she said to the driver with a smirk as he eased the car to a halt, his hands white-knuckled against the wheel. Gwyneth stepped from the car, shaking her head at her silly driver.
“You sweet boy,” she said to the Gypsy child. “What are you doing out here?”
“What do you think I am doing?” the boy asked. “I am begging for money because I am poor.”
“Wouldn’t you rather live in a castle and star in Iron Man 2? Wouldn’t that make you happier?”
The boy did not say anything.
“Something tells me you would be much happier not being dirty and poor and only having one arm. You should have two arms!”
The boy spit at her.
“You’ll see,” she said with a smile. “When you become a movie star and live in a castle and only eat healthy foods that are very expensive and prepared for you by professionals, you’ll see that I was right!”
Gwyneth dropped a business card with Goop’s URL into the boy’s soot-stained hat.
The driver took her to Chez Fancy and she nourished her inner aspect with a six-course tasting menu. She did not tip, because she felt that tipping was only an incentive for the waiters and waitresses to feel content with where they were and she wanted more for them. She wanted so much more for everyone.