She's been rich since the day she was born. She was on TV before she could drive. She was an elite fashion model by the time she tu...
The sun rises and pours an ocean of light onto Paris one Thursday morning in early March, and Kendall Jenner is at the wheel of a Smart car, a little speed-bump-shaped contraption that contains two seats and three people. Ashleah, Kendall’s modeling agent/minder/friend, reaches out one long graceful arm to take a selfie—two artfully posed women, one bewildered man—then instructs Kendall to hang a right up the Avenue de la Grande Armée.
We do a couple of doughnuts around the monument to the French war dead. Kendall, in sunglasses, a pale pink shift, and Chloé sneakers, is giggling, weaving with the ease of the L.A.-born through Paris traffic like we won’t all die in a cute little explosion should our tiny car hit even a particularly large cobblestone. She has the quality unique to certain fashion models where from most vantage points she looks like someone you might have gone to high school with, and then the light touches her face in a specific way, like through the windshield just now, say, and all the hard angles and emphatic contours and one-in-a-million genetic collisions emerge.
She slides us down the Champs-Élysées to Avenue George V and pulls up at the Four Seasons, where we all tumble out of the car into a sudden jarring circle of camera flashes.
Upstairs, Kendall knocks on a door, and on the other side of that door is her mother, Kris Jenner, wearing nothing but a leopard-print robe. Her hair is wet and slicked back, her skin moist and well oiled. "Come in," she says, in the airy death-threat tones I know so well from television. There is a bowl of ripe fruit, Chanel shopping bags strewn across the lemon yellow carpet. A gentleman stylist works away at her hair as she bids me to sit down. Kris turns to Kendall with great interest: "Who did you go out with last night?"
