In many ways, Swift – a "hopeless romantic", sincere to a fault – is the antithesis of cool; the writer Erika Villani has astutely identified this very uncoolness as the basis of many of her critics' arguments. It's long been so: Swift rattles off her favourite quotes from Mean Girls, arguably the defining teen movie of her generation, with relish, but the one time that her poise is even slightly shaken today is when she talks about the first car she bought with her earnings. It was a Lexus SC430 convertible – as owned by Regina George, ringleader of the film's bullying Plastics – an odd choice for a goody-goody like Swift?
"All the girls who were mean to me in middle school, like, idolised the Plastics," she explains. "I think I chose that car as a kind of rebellion against that type of girl. It was like – you guys never invited me to anything, you guys are obsessed with that car and that girl and what the Plastics wear and how they talk and you quote them all the time, but I've been working really hard every single day." She bangs both fists on the arms of her chair in frustration. "And instead of going to parties I've been writing songs and playing shows and getting these really small pay cheques that have added up and now I get to buy a car – and guess which one I'm going to buy? The one that the girl you idolise has."
It's an illuminating insight into the points of connection that make Swift so adored by her fanbase – and also the revenge of someone who believes in narrative resolutions; not necessarily happy endings, but poetic ones. In Swift, the traditions of storytelling and confessionalism are intertwined, held together by an instinct for the universal. "I think that all we have are our memories, and our hope for future memories," she smiles, her serenity restored. "I just like to hopefully give people a soundtrack to those things."
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