I play hide-and-seek in my penthouse apartment with my four-year-old twins, Whisper and Gem, all three of us clad in bespoke knit loungewear.
I wear my new Alaïa bandage dress to the opening of the latest Marina Abramović performance art piece at MoMA (The Artist Is Silent). The dress is a nod to the performance, in which Abramović stands in the middle of the room wearing a gag while members of the public tiptoe around her.
I own a silk Dior bathrobe exclusively for wafting silently from room to room when I’m home alone.
I celebrate the life of my best friend’s recently departed Pekingese, who was run over by a Rolls-Royce. I am dressed in black Chanel from head to toe out of respect for Monsieur Le Floof.
I arrive at my silent retreat at a Cistercian monastery in the Hamptons carrying my Louis Vuitton yoga mat. I prepared for the occasion by getting Botox shots in my armpits to ensure that the sound of dripping sweat will not disturb me during scorpion pose.
My butler is contractually obligated to say everything sotto voce.

