Louise Linton has accomplished the near-impossible task of locating an ordinary meeting place in the most moneyed stretch of the Upper East Side, where she and her husband, U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Steven Mnuchin, own an apartment… But for our meeting, she has selected the humble Three Guys restaurant, a bustling family diner and an oasis of normalcy in a land of excess. I will meet Louise Linton, the 37-year-old woman most frequently described as the Marie Antoinette of our current era, at a place that serves mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers.
Later on you learn that the apartment is in addition to the $12.6M Amero home in D.C., you know, that she finally! has decorated to her liking:
The elephant in the room is the great, if not overwhelming, likelihood that she will not have any long-term use for this etiquette training, given the volatility of the Trump administration. One would imagine this possibility is a relief for Linton. And yet she hates to think about it. “Especially because I just finished decorating my house, and I just started making friends in DC,” she sighs.
Best bit: a throw-away story about how she befriended a homeless man in Los Angeles because she was concerned about his dog. The homeless guy? Not so much. But, you know, in these kinds of puffery pieces there is the moment of redemption.
We learn that Elle fact-checked the dog story, and lo! Linton is a good person:
Richard, over the phone, tells me that he knows Linton is a good person because his dog loves her. “You can’t fool an animal. Dogs read people,” he says.
So, not totally Cruella DeVille!
It just goes on and on! She likes the SnapChat Filters that turn her and her husband into pigs (big stretch right there), and of course the Yin/Yang redemption:
“I didn’t even know she had Snapchat,” her press rep says, faintly concerned.
I mean, why is the press rep worried, what could go wrong? Oh, yeah, that.
It’s really a tour-de-farce attempt to make Linton seem like she’s jus’ regular folk (who grew up in a Scottish castle and lives a life of ridiculous leisure and bleached-white privilege), and by the end of it I felt sorry for the wretched author who got the short straw at the assignment desk.
One last quote:
Linton thinks ruefully about the long leather gloves and the black skirt, which are currently hanging, unloved and radioactive, in her closet. “I really hope someday I can wear that outfit again,” she says. “Because I really liked it.”
(Hat tip: Scissorhead Fran)