As Charli XCX and I check into our Couple’s Rejuvenation Package at a neon-lit spa in Midtown Manhattan, it seems like the staff is quietly trying to make sense of our relationship, given the palpable sense that we are not actually a couple. Between sugar scrubs and a hot stone massage, the package promises to “recharge, refresh, and revive,” and Charli is in the market for all three.

“I need a day off,” the 27-year-old admits early in our conversation, wrapped in a spa-mandated robe. She has spent the past few days traveling between continents, toiling toward her forthcoming album, Charli. Two days ago she was in her native UK shooting a video with Christine and the Queens’ Héloïse Letissier for their synthy new tag-team track “Gone” that required both of them to be chained to a car for three hours. The visual was Charli’s idea, Letissier tells me a few days later, adding that it’s a metaphor for “being trapped in the male gaze.”

After breaking free, she flew across the ocean to play a high-octane show for the PBS series Live From the Artists Den, during which she dominated every inch of the stage while performing for a crowd of loyalists who’d waited hours in the sticky, midsummer heat to get in. (Her fans are called Angels, by the way, which will make sense after about 10 seconds of thinking.)

Then she went to a raucous party at a bar in the East Village with a handful of friends—something that might seem like leisure time to many but, when you’re Charli XCX, it’s impossible to attain blissful off-the-clock anonymity at a drag show in the middle of Pride Week. The gays know her face, even when it’s obscured by sunglasses. They, or shall I say we, are a big part of Charli’s fiery and devout fan base, and love to support an inventive pop underdog whose music rarely scales the charts but is ubiquitous in all their safe spaces.

Even as she sinks into a jacuzzi while holding a freshly poured flute of champagne, I remind myself that she’s at work, talking to a writer with a recorder about her dreams, ambitions, regrets. Still, she seems to be savoring this rare moment of calm. As we sip from our glasses and munch on a bizarre assortment of dried fruit and chocolate, Charli finally gets to put her feet up.

“My toenail is coming off,” she says with bored nonchalance, raising her foot out of the water. After taking a quick look at the asymmetrical shard dangling off her big toe—it’s not the whole nail, but it’s definitely enough—I cover my eyes and turn away. “I got it,” she says, presumably after peeling it off and placing it somewhere out of sight. “Are you gonna put that in the piece?” she asks, laughing.