Ramona Singer’s Hamptons bedroom is, by all accounts, a monument to a very specific kind of white — not the white of hospital corridors or rental apartments, but the white of intention. Sun-bleached, slightly textured, the kind of white that says: I washed this, then I washed it again, and now I am sleeping in it because I deserve to.
Linen, as a material, has the decency to improve with age. Unlike cotton, which softens timidly and then gives up, linen develops character — each wash makes it more itself, which is a quality the Heiress finds rare and commendable in both textiles and housewives. The wrinkles are, at this point, non-negotiable: one does not iron a linen duvet. One accepts its terms. At 5, this is the most honest thing in the bedroom, which in Ramona’s case is saying quite a lot.
