Once upon a time I knew a goddess, a fairy, a whore. Her name was Delilah, a fashion editor that led little ballerinas to believe in Chanel, Monte Carlo and George Clooney. She never had a permanent address but lived somewhere über chic and always entertained lavishly with Dom Pérignon and Beluga caviar. We met at the funeral of a famous modernist artist, who painted with his blood.
“Why do you look like a flamingo, DARLING?” she said in vintage Dior.
“I promised Tzar that I wouldn’t mourn his death but celebrate my own life,” I answered.
“Well you look fabulous, DARLING. Pink is the new black, DARLING. You can quote me on that, DARLING. ‘Delilah declares that pink will save us all.’ You have to join me and Plato and some of the others for a cocktail or twenty after all of this,” she invited me.
That night I learned of a world that included philosophy, literature and the secret of acceptance.
The next day Delilah invited me to a charity ball for people who lived on glue. I accepted.
“You look like Cinderella!” I greeted her on the steps.
“OH NO DARLING, that’s never a good thing. It means that I am that ordinary girl who only has one second to be beautiful. No one wants to be that girl, DARLING,” she said, dripping with Cartier.
That night I discovered a society of politics, money and power.
The next day I received a VIP invite to attend the opening of a new club in Woodstock.
“You look like a slut!” I greeted her at the bar.
“AHHHH! Thank you, DARLING. Now come, I want you to meet Dimitri,” she responded while opening a bottle of Louis Roederer champagne.
That night I became a citizen of a universe that included beauty, lust and alcohol.
The next morning Delilah arrived at my door.
“We are going to Tokyo DARLING. Li is sponsoring,” she said while clutching the latest impossible to get Louis Vuitton bag.
On that trip I experienced a galaxy of culture, tradition and saki.
A week later, Delilah had to fly to Paris for Fashion Week.
“You are obviously accompanying me, DARLING. Mama needs her lucky charm,” she said while pouring her fifth Mimosa for the morning.
That week I lived in a town that was built on the outskirts of talent, bulimia and chiffon.
After arriving back in Cape Town, I did not hear from Delilah till one rainy afternoon in winter.
“DARLING, join me and Bacchus for a couple of bottles of his latest vintage. The car is at your door,” she demanded.
I entered the cellar, lit by candles and the smell of fermented fantasy, and saw her clutching the hand of a famous wine master, who was very publicly married to a previous Miss SA.
That day I graduated from the University of Passion, Adultery and Cabernet Franc.
A week later Delilah called me just before the sun showed its face on the horizon.
“Help me!” she said softly.
I found her in a back alley with street cats and the aroma of hell, barely covered with a black bag. Her being shivered as her eyes met mine. She started to talk.
“We live our lives according to a Bible of desire and little white lies.
We sacrifice our integrity and our morals for the possibility of a dream.
We pretend to care for the helpless and only cry with the animals when we are hunted.
We are only of this moment and only as good as our last performance.
Alone, committed, sad, happy, rich, poor, gorgeous, ugly, young or old – these words will define you if you sell your soul to a world that will forget about you tomorrow.
And why do we do all these things? Just so that we can put a flag on the top of Maslow’s Pyramid that reads: ‘Delilah was here. She made it. She achieved what others only dreamt of.’
Is this a life of meaning, a life of substance, a life at all?
I am not ashamed to admit that I enjoyed a life of passion.
I am not embarrassed to admit that I am more intrigued by a life of splendour.
I am not humiliated by what I have become.
I am not mortified to admit these things, nor would I change any of my decisions.
I am at the end of the rainbow; only human after all. Honesty, truthfulness, loyalty, sincerity and, above all else, integrity should be your legacy.
But I chose; I wrote the story of my life, I defined, I ruled, I prayed, I died, I am reborn.”
I looked at Delilah and saw the mascara streaking her face as she spoke these truths. Her scars were canyons, her faith beaten to death, her emotions running towards the fires of hell, but her being glided slowly to heaven.
I only saw her once after that. It was yesterday. She is working for Greenpeace and apprenticing for PETA. She only wears white cotton, just eats organic, is married to her faith and the proud mother of all the children that Brangelina did not adopt.