But anyway, back to me. I mean – my journey as a Caroline Calloway fan. Because at some point, I went from sceptical onlooker, to full-blown stan – even sending hundreds of dollars to her via PayPal for her latest ‘grifts’. And I’m not even sorry about it – even though the rainbow portrait of my face, which I ordered in June 2021, still hasn’t arrived (DON’T WORRY! She made sure to make good on all outstanding orders before publishing Scammer, so it’s in the post, and is coming with a bonus treat apparently). The Snake oil I ordered a month later (it was the pandemic, give me a goddamn break!) finally arrived in March this year (beautifully packaged, in typical Calloway style) with a bonus body oil, Caro Card, Scammer stickers, grift (not gift) cards, and a knitted cat hat (if you’re familiar with her cat/ best friend, Matisse, you’ll know what I’m talking about).
Like most of her fans, I’m not bothered by the delay. In fact, it’s all part of her chaotic charm. And although I did have moments during the intervening years where I wondered that I had genuinely been scammed, another part of me always knew she’d make good on the deal. “I’m very sorry it’s taken me so long to get your portrait,” she says, when I mention it on our call. “To be totally honest with you, the scammer allegations made me a worst person – in terms of what sort of decisions I made with my life, like not paying rent, or just not being more organised with these portraits. I honestly thought to myself: ‘well, what’s the worst they can call me? A scammer? Oh no, how will I survive?’ And in a weird way, those articles made me more reckless than I would have been otherwise.”
And anyway, these extra projects were never anything more than a way to pay off debts while she procrastinated on a grand scale. “I enjoyed making the Snake Oil and the Caro cards and the grift cards, but like, I don’t wanna be Kylie Jenner. It’s not my dream to have a skincare line – it’s not the goal.”
No, the goal was always to write a book. This book. The one I’ve just devoured in six straight hours.
“What did you like about the book?” she blurts out, suddenly. “I know I’m not supposed to ask this question – but outside of people who made it, you’re probably like, I dunno, number fucking five in the world [who’s read it]. So what did you like about it? What did you think?”
I don’t want to gush (well, any more than I already have), but let’s just say, it’s a good read. A great read, even. Beautifully written, it’s juicy, shocking, relatable, touching, funny, clever, insightful – and at times, as much a manual for creativity (and, I guess, hustling) as a memoir. It skips around – between Cambridge and New York, her complicated childhood and chaotic adulthood. It’s sweet and bitter and confessional and coy – in short, it’s everything any of us (as in: her hundreds of thousands of fans) could have hoped for.
But really, I should be the one asking the questions here. So how does it feel, now she’s finally done it? Now she’s reached the top of the mountain, I ask. “Honestly, it feels soooo good,” she smiles. “It’s just nice to be happy, if only for a little bit.”