Everyone hates rich people. ‘Tory scum’...’wanker banker’....’posh twat’...I see this kind of chat every day – on dating apps, online or scribbled in graffiti on the buildings in my east London neighbourhood. Wealthy people are judged and vilified, dehumanised, even – and somehow it’s acceptable.
I’ve experienced similar treatment in the past, which is why I now prefer not to divulge how filthy rich I really am – I’ll probably be cancelled. I can see that disparity of wealth must be really difficult to deal with if you’re born without a financial cushion; it’s not fair. But that doesn’t mean all people with money are scum.
My hip local mates assume I’m a struggling creative, just like them, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The embodiment of upper-class privilege, I was literally born with a platinum spoon in my mouth and millions in the bank. Most of the time this privilege feels more like a curse, one that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life paying for (and a price that, sadly, I can’t put on my Amex).
When my new friends and neighbours complain about rates or rent – or worse, politics – it highlights how out of touch I am with regular people. I’ll nod along and get down with the ‘F*ck Boris’ vibe when, actually, he went to school with my dad and by all accounts is a really nice guy. I’ve also started being economical with the truth, omitting or adding details about my life to make me seem more ‘palatable’. My signet ring? Consigned to the safe. The estate I grew up on? Make that council estate. Weekly shop? Lidl (which, by the way, is actually kind of fab – the vegetables are super seasonal) – with a sneaky Daylesford delivery each month.
It was weird at first, but I’m now so used to pretending to be broke that sometimes it almost feels like I am. I’ve modified my accent too. Those boarding school vowels are a dead giveaway.
I’m one of four children. We grew up with nannies, plus various other staff – a housekeeper, a gardener etc – between London and the countryside, in a minor stately home, with a swimming pool, a tennis court and horses (none of us ride, they’re just nice to have around). Peacocks parade the lawns, our antiques cost more than some people’s houses, and when meals are served, our chef bangs a gong to let us know it’s time to eat. Holidays were spent skiing, in exotic villas or on yachts, cruising the Med. Years ago, my parents even bought a desert island in the South Pacific, ostensibly to live out some whimsical Robinson Crusoe fantasy – they’re eccentric like that, they can afford to be. We’ve only been once. I was bought my own house in London (mortgage-free, obviously) and have spent a ton doing it up with an interior decorator – it looks fabulous but both lovers and friends have taken advantage of me financially in the past so I’m wary of inviting people back, unless of course they ‘get it’.
So why don’t I just hang out with a load of really rich kids, Gossip Girl style? Sorry, but I’ve got to laugh. Simply put, there aren’t that many of us about – especially not in east London. Most of the people I know who could keep up with my wallet are either on a permanent Gap Year, schweffing about Notting Hill or hunting/shooting/fishing (delete as appropriate). For the most part, they’re a predictable tribe; just because someone is on my level financially, doesn’t make them interesting. I like being around people from all walks of life, it’s just that in my experience, they don’t like being around me.
I do try to be as generous as possible with my new friends without giving the game away. When a crew of us last went out for dinner, I said I’d buy the booze because I’d just picked up a new freelance gig. It’s the least I can do. I have to be careful though – I’ve very nearly been rumbled a few times, especially back when I was more naïve and didn’t really understand that not everyone has a trust fund.
We were smoking a spliff in the park the other day when a conversation came up about what our parents do for work. I wasn’t really concentrating, and the truth slipped out: “Nothing,” I said. (My parents don’t work, never have). My mates looked at me like I was mad. “What do you mean, they’ve never had jobs?” I had to backtrack immediately, mumbling something about them being “retired”.
It’s not my fault I’m posh and minted. It’s the luck of the draw. I haven’t earned a penny myself and I’ll be honest, I don’t intend to. Why bother grinding away for cash that’s already in the bank?
I’ve tried loads of different things over the years but it’s really difficult to be passionate about anything when you don’t need the money. I guess I could do anything, but I just don’t know what that would be – so I’ve got myself a pretend job instead. It’s sort of a mashup of roles – a veneer of a career that makes me sound cool and arty, without having to commit anything. Officially I’m a ‘freelance creative’, which can mean anything, really. Sometimes I say I’m a stylist, at other times I’m a writer or just “in media''. Nobody really cares, and it makes more sense for me to have a label rather than admit the truth. I’m only human. I want to be involved in a scene and it just so happens that the one I’ve chosen is full of people who really care about what they’re doing and who work harder than I ever will.
I guess the only people I can be myself around are my old school friends. Around some of them, I am the poor relation. Ridiculous, I know. But it’s true. Where we have supercars, they have their own private jets and choppers. Now that is what I call rich.
It’s impossible to be straightforward about my situation without sounding like an absolute dick. And that’s the issue. In my experience, when people find out about my background, not only do they never take me seriously, it’s as if I’m not allowed to have any issues. For most people, money is an answer to problems. Trust me, it doesn’t work like that.
My bank account is full but my heart, very often, is not. I’m single, I’m riddled with guilt and insecurities, and I can’t even connect to a career that fulfils me. With not much to do most of the time, I often feel bored and lonely, like I’m just bobbing around in a world that doesn’t care if I exist. They say you get out of life what you put in, I just don’t know where to start. Poor little rich girl, right? Yeah, admit it, you hate me too.
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