I confess I slept through it, and I’m surprised that she didn’t as well. “Did you feel the earthquake last night?” she asks, referring to the 4.2 magnitude shock waves that struck off the coast of Malibu in the early hours of the morning. Decorated with little more than a few graphic Bowie concert posters, it’s the one room where the famously kinetic British model and actor might occasionally sit still. If each room reflects a side of her personality, then this space suggests Delevingne at her most introspective. She has the gawky charm of a teenage music nerd-barefoot and dressed in an oversized vintage Prince T-shirt matched with gray marl gym shorts-and ushers me quickly past the crystal clear baby grand piano and the glowing James Turrell art installation up to the den on the first floor. When I arrive at the big blue front doors on a cloudless day in late January, Delevingne greets me with a warm hug. There’s a tented poker room draped in red velvet, a David Bowie–themed bathroom, a ball pit with circus-stripe walls, trampolines laid into the lawn. It brims with madcap furnishings, each corner appointed with her signature wit and imagination. Conceived as a playhouse for adults, Cara Delevingne’s 1940s white-brick home in Los Angeles is the stuff of design-world lore.
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