Suzy Welch published this article originally on her LinkedIn page in response to The Daily Beast’s reporting on “Kyle Deschanel.”

I hate people who claim they have a “superpower." Please. Kill me. How about “a knack?” Or, “I’ve done something so many times, I’ve made all the mistakes you can, so I’m good at it now?” That’s my favorite.

BUT!

But, truth be told, today I was shamelessly crowing to my daughters about my very own “superpower,” prompted by The Daily Beast story about an apparent grifter who has been leading a double-life as a New York bon vivant. This tale of woe was broken by a TikTok influencer named Eva Evans, who happens to be a longtime family friend. Translation: she is my daughter’s high school bestie, whom we all love because she is hilarious and smart and chic. (Hi Eva!)

Eva, a filmmaker, met “Kyle Deschanel” flirting around downtown, as she is wont to do, dated him for three or four months, but then eventually concluded that he is not a Rothschild heir or an agent for the Saudi government. Oops!

Actually, he is reportedly Aryeh Dodelson, a 35-year-old, recently-divorced rabbi, who has a wife and kid in New Jersey, owes a lot of people money, and is, to use the technical term, a total arse.

Here’s the thing. I knew “Kyle” was a phony the minute I met him. And I told Eva. (Hi again, Eva! You know it’s true!)

It all began last May at the Frederick Law Olmsted Annual Awards Luncheon, where several hundred New York ladies gather each year in their most outrageous hats to raise money for Central Park. Because I love hats, and love Central Park even more, I always get a table at this event, and Eva was one of my guests. (In this photo, she is the glam-pot in the back left corner.)

Lunch was served, and speeches were underway, when suddenly, a somewhat debonair fellow in a double-breasted blue suit and silk tie appeared out of nowhere, crouched next to our table, and started whispering urgently with Eva. There are very few men at the Hat Luncheon, and no one just wanders in, so this was…unexpected. Still, Eva seemed intrigued by this man, and she clearly knew him, so we all just watched in surprise. It looked like he might leave, but nope. He quickly found his way over to me at the head of the table, where he immediately started chatting me up with what felt like a very high level of familiarity.

Within three minutes he had identified himself as a Rothschild, and an important part of the Saudi economic apparatus. He repeatedly mentioned working with “The King.” I can’t recall the details; there were too many of them, and he was speaking very fast. He was charming, witty, magnetic, and, without a fraction of a doubt, 100% full of 💩 .

Which I told Eva right after he left a few minutes later, but whatever. My kids generally don’t listen to me. Why should their friends?

I know what you’re thinking now. I’m not daft. You’re thinking: GET TO THE POINT, WOULD YOU? So here goes. How is it that I knew “Kyle Deschanel” was a phony? Well, the real answer is, “My spidey sense told me.” But let me tell you the source of that spidey sense.

“Their facts never seem to add up. You know what I mean. Lots of money, but no place to live? Big job, but no assistant? Lots of foreign travel, but no jet lag? Hmm.”

In my experience, phonies invariably present with an extremely bizarre mixture of pomposity and humility. It can almost give you whiplash. They often outright claim to be special—famous, rich, important—they are members of an elite tribe, breathe rarified air, know things and people you could not. But simultaneously, they do a strange jig where they act like this specialness isn’t all that big a thing. Or at least, that it shouldn’t be mentioned in anything louder than a hushed voice. They’re vaguely embarrassed by it. They don’t want anyone to know. They just happen to be a good person who’s very, very lucky. They just happen to be, to paraphrase the old Dos Equis ad, “the most interesting person in the world.”

Did I mention this dynamic is extremely bizarre?

For the record, people who are actually famous, rich, and important, in my experience at least, never mention it. And people who are, in reality, wildly interesting, almost never seem to notice it about themselves. They just are. If you told them, they would be surprised—genuinely.

So, this odd mix is the main telltale sign of a phony. But I should just add there are three others.

• Their facts never seem to add up. You know what I mean. Lots of money, but no place to live? Big job, but no assistant? Lots of foreign travel, but no jet lag? Hmm.
• There are things about their past you cannot verify. Spoiler alert: No one graduates from Princeton at 16, and three people on Planet Earth have actually had parents who were Russian spies and can talk about it.
• They cannot do little stuff normally. This shows up particularly quickly in work settings. For instance, phonies always seem to show up late to meetings and miss deadlines. Their excuses go two ways. They are either super self-important, as in, “Sorry, got a call from Diller—he’s in Mykonos, and wanted my aunt’s number.” Or they are overkill. “My dog swallowed a battery and needed surgery.”

Fortunately, the world has a way of rooting out phonies pretty quickly, aided and abetted by this little thing called Google. The catch is that phonies tend to be wily and smart, and sometimes the story they’re telling is one you want to be true. Yay, a cool person is your friend!

Except he (or she) is not cool. And not your friend.

I am your friend! And I am here to confirm what you already know is true. If you are groaning, they are phony-ing. You don’t have to have superpower to know when someone is full of 💩. A knack will do, just be sure to listen when it knocks.

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