I never thought I would say this.
It's been 48 hours since I've seen daylight or had human contact. If you could see me right now, the light of this MacBook would be lighting up a greasy face with unfocused eyes and matted hair. Tear tracks carrying black flecks of mascara down the cheeks.
I spun the boat around and gunned it back to the chateau. Please be true! Please be true! And it was. Splashed across my computer screen was the yacht, glittering in that special shade of French blue that made you think anything was possible.
Onboard Jacuzzi, sun pad, fire pit and champagne bar. Top speed of 44 knots. Sixty-six feet in length. Master suite. Bugatti-esque horseshoe-shaped salon. Guest bathroom. Gallery kitchen. A two-to-one guest-to-crew ratio. My knees were weak. I had to have it.
"It's not possible," my banker said flatly when I phoned Geneva.
"What? What do you mean, 'not possible'?" I snarled, slapping away the masseuse's hands and sitting up.
"Madam, within the last six months you've already purchased the Lexus yacht, the Richard Mille watch, the AMG Cigarette boat because you're obsessed with shiny carbon fibre and a new Rolls-Royce with diamond paint," he responded without missing a beat. It was like the little shit had rehearsed this.
We argued some more but it was clear: he wouldn't wire the funds until there were enough funds to wire. I dismissed all the servants for the rest of the week and shut myself up in my study.
Forty-eight hours of binge-watching House Hunters International, screaming at the nanny and diving into all of the caviar I had later, I finally willed myself to write this to you. I have a headache and really bad congestion. When I go to wipe my face, my fingers come away powdery and white.
Will I be able to climb out of this hole? I'm not sure. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to. To live in a world where a Bugatti Chiron yacht is out of reach? That's a tragedy I'm not sure I want to be a part of.