The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  “Ever think about bartending out in the Hamptons?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m still trying to get on my feet after graduation.” Plus, I’d only been at Finton’s a couple of weeks. How could I already jump ship?

  “I’m sure you could make a lot more money out there. Finton’s really slows down during the summer months, as does everything in Manhattan. But the bars and clubs in the Hamptons are always packed in the summer. The season’s so short, no one wants to miss a chance to go out. Furthermore, all the sophisticated young people in New York get shares in the Hamptons nowadays. You’d have a marvelous time.”

  “That sounds great, but I’m sure it’s impossible to get a job.”

  “You should come out with me this weekend,” Martin suggested. “I can take you around to some of my haunts. I know a couple of people who owe me some favors.”

  “Maybe.” I contemplated his offer. I definitely wasn’t making the money I’d anticipated at Finton’s and was spending more time listening to sob stories than making drinks. If I’d gone to grad school for psychology, I’d be making $500 an hour for what I was already doing basically for free. In the Hamptons I could probably make fistfuls of cash, go for runs every morning along a stretch of white sandy beach—and maybe even spot Clive Owen. It was unavoidably appealing, even though part of me wondered how I’d fit in with such a wealthy scene. Was it crazy to even think about trying to take on another job when I was just getting the hang of things here? Still, I could hear the song of the Hamptons Sirens luring me away from the monotonous din of Finton’s.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning if you’d like to join me. My house has more than its share of guest rooms, and you can take the train back the next morning if you have to work at night,” Martin offered.

  “Okay, maybe I will,” I said. After all, what harm could it do to check it out? At the very least, I’d be able to get out of the city for a few days.

  I returned to the stack of lipstick-smeared champagne flutes that had piled up around the grimy sink. As I watched Martin savor his “perfect” manhattan, I wondered if the Hamptons might be a necessary ingredient in mine.

  Four

  ____________

  SALTY DOG

  “Why do you need another bartending job?”

  My mother’s concern had been palpable, even over the phone, when I told her I was going job-hunting in Southampton.

  “You’re going to get run down and sick, and you don’t even have health insurance,” she continued.

  The truth was that my previous summers in New York had taught me that from Memorial Day to Labor Day the city underwent an unpleasant transformation unlike any other major metropolitan area in America. Hundred-degree heat coupled with stifling humidity, a seeming boom in the rat and roach populations, and the proliferation of all kinds of unique bodily odors engendered a mass exodus of New Yorkers to second homes in Connecticut, the Catskills, Fire Island, and, of course, the Hamptons, the crown jewel of summer retreats. The paved streets and sidewalks soaked up the sun’s rays and trapped the brutal heat so that even after sunset, they radiated oven temperatures, filling the atmosphere with a sticky, tarry taste. Pollution cloaked the island in a thick layer of smog, and entering the subway system was like hitting an unbearably oppressive wall of heat saturated with the stench of urine. The sweltering temperatures forced you to wear as little as possible, and the resultant catcalls made walking down the street a study in sexual harassment. Alexis had installed an air-conditioner in her bedroom, but I—typically—couldn’t afford one. My room was already a sweat lodge, and it was only the third week of May. In short, New York City was the single worst place to be in the summer, and if you had any means of escape you’d be a fool not to take it—especially if it meant hobnobbing on the beach and in five-star restaurants with heiresses and rock stars.

  “Mom, I promise I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “And I’ll be able to make a lot more money.”

  “But, honey, I thought you said that if you went to bartending school, you’d be making more money than you’d possibly need.”

  At this point, I still hadn’t told my parents that Martini Mike’s promises of $1,000 a night hadn’t come remotely close to meeting reality. And it would be a cold day in hell before I told them I’d never even passed the class in the first place. They kept pressing me to log onto ehealthinsurance.com, a website devoted to helping freelancers and other “nontraditional” workers find health insurance and avoid “middle-class poverty.” Even though the site offered a good service, I couldn’t see how another monthly bill of $307 would keep me any healthier. I decided I’d have to get by with the vitamin C and multivitamins I bought at Duane Reade.

  I’d also decided that the best way to get ahead was to go bartend where money was growing on the white poplar trees. “I spent a couple of summers out there in the eighties, working at this gay bar in Wainscott called the Swamp,” Billy had told me when he overheard Martin mention the Hamptons. “We were walking with $600 a night, easily, and sometimes we’d bank a grand—and that was over ten years ago. There’s no limit to the amount of money people throw at you out there.”

  You’re going to bartend in the Hamptons? That’s amazing!”

  It was seven o’clock on a Thursday morning, and Alexis was shocked to find me awake and dressed at such an early hour. “So this guy you met at Finton’s—what’s his name again?”

  “Martin Pritchard,” I told her.

  “Right, Martin. And he’s taking you out there today?” She was standing in a raw silk crimson kimono, her blond hair swept back in a perfect knot at the nape of her neck, steaming her first espresso of the day in the $5,000 Boden espresso and cappuccino machine her mother had bought us.

  “Yeah, he knows the owner of a bar out there called Saracen. It’s in Wainscott, I think. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah,” Alexis mused, while inspecting the flawless French manicure she got at Rescue Beauty Lounge every Tuesday evening. “It’s a tiny town somewhere between Bridge and East Hampton.”

  “Bridge?”

  “Bridgehampton,” she sniffed.

  “Oh,” I said. I stuffed my headphones and a copy of the New Yorker into my backpack and zipped it shut. “Lex, you don’t think it’s weird that I’m going out there with Martin, do you? I mean, I hardly know him.”

  “He’s a friend of Dan Finton’s, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Has he ever hit on you?”

  “No!”

  “Besides him asking you out for a romantic weekend getaway in the Hamptons, that is.” Alexis smirked.

  “Honestly, it’s not like that,” I protested.

  “Has he ever asked you out or anything?”

  “No. Nothing like that at all.”

  “Does he check you out when you’re behind the bar?”

  “No,” I said, wracking my brain for any instance where he’d made me feel uncomfortable. “He’s actually always been a gentleman.”

  “Then, no, I don’t think it’s weird. He’s probably just trying to help you out. Didn’t you say he went to Columbia?”

  “Yeah, he went to Columbia for undergrad and got his master’s at Harvard. Dan says he’s one of the most successful art dealers in New York.”

  She nodded approvingly as she emptied a blue Equal packet into her scalding espresso. “I swear to God, I drink so much Equal, that I’m going to wake up one day to find a third eye growing in the middle of my forehead.” She stirred the espresso with her finger. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks. I feel so sick. I’m never drinking again.” I’d had fifteen baby shots of Jameson at work the night before, and even though under Billy’s calculation that only amounted to four actual shots, I’d woken up that morning with a toxic hangover. In addition to the hundreds of calories in each shot, beer, or glass of wine I imbibed, I couldn’t even begin to calculate the infinite calories I was ingesting in food. I’d taken to eating full breakfast
s at 7A with Annie at five every morning on my way home after our after-work drink(s). Not to mention the fact that working at a restaurant didn’t do much to combat an expanding waistline—white bread, fried calamari, French fries, and chocolate cake were readily available for me to pick at all night long in the kitchen. I vowed right then and there that I wouldn’t drink for at least a week and would try to incorporate more vegetables into my diet.

  “But, seriously, Lex,” I went on, banishing my hangover guilt and anxiety, “you don’t think I should worry about . . . I don’t know, being alone with him. I’ve never been anywhere with him besides Finton’s, and then there’s always the bar between us, you know?”

  “You’re definitely overthinking this. What is he like, seventy? He probably just wants to help out a fellow Columbia alum. Besides, I go out for drinks with my boss all the time, and he’s like a hundred years older than me. Just think of Martin as a work colleague. This could be great for you. Maybe you’ll finally be able to stop worrying about money.”

  For Alexis, my constant fretting over bills was akin to worrying about a bad dye job from Bumble and Bumble—it was never as bad as you thought it was, and if you just decided not to focus on it, you’d be much better off.

  I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door as she downed her double espresso in a single shot.

  A half hour later I arrived at Martin’s building, still nursing my hangover but excited for the journey. Martin lived uptown in the Pierre on Fifth Avenue, amid the extravagant structures of Museum Mile—the stretch of Fifth Avenue that hugs the idyllic east side of Central Park and houses the paramount New York museums including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick. I paid the cab driver with my last $20 bill, which was supposed to tide me over until my next shift at Finton’s, and stepped out in front of the Pierre. The doorman, wearing the standard emerald green uniform complete with large brass buttons and military-style cap, looked me up and down, eyeing my Old Navy ensemble and battered backpack.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Hi.” I smiled. “My name’s Cassie Ellis. I’m here to see Martin Pritchard.”

  His face softened. “Hello, Miss Ellis.” He opened the heavy glass door with his gloved hands. “Please have a seat while I notify him of your arrival.”

  Gazing around the opulent lobby, complete with a grand marble staircase and crystal chandeliers accenting the plush ivory and gold rug that looked like an heirloom from a Persian monarch, I felt like Little Orphan Annie at Daddy Warbuck’s mansion. I got a shiver of excitement (and a tinge of jealousy) looking around at all the perfectly coiffed residents sailing in and out of the lobby, carrying shopping bags from Takashimaya, Gucci, and Henri Bendel. I sat down on a luxurious red velvet couch that looked like it had once belonged to Cleopatra.

  “Hello, dear,” Martin said, emerging from the elevator, cane in hand, and trailed by a valet with five Louis Vuitton suitcases neatly stacked on a luggage cart. He leaned in to plant a wet kiss on my cheek. His breath was acrid—reeking of nicotine and tomato juice, as if he’d polished off a few Bloody Marys with breakfast. Without a bar between us, I realized he was a good five inches shorter than I was.

  “Hi, Martin,” I said, trying not to blanch at his sour smell. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m still waiting for them to pull the car out of the garage so the doorman can load it for us.” He walked over to the doorman and asked him, “Has Lily arrived?”

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said.

  “Who’s Lily?” I asked.

  “She’s the woman I’m seeing. She’s coming with us to Southampton,” Martin answered.

  I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t known Martin was seeing anyone, but I was glad it wouldn’t be the two of us alone all day. What kind of woman, I wondered, did a man like Martin date? I envisioned Lily as a curator from the Louvre, a distinguished professor of anthropology, or maybe an auctioneer from Christie’s who shared his passion for art.

  While waiting for Martin, I’d noticed quite a few younger women of the Plum Sykes’s Bergdorf Blondes variety swarming about, armed with chihuahas in pink sweaters that peeked curiously out of Bottega Venetta woven bags. Now I scanned the other faces in the lobby, looking for Lily, and spotted an attractive fair-haired woman of about fifty-five, in an eggshell Chanel suit and tasteful black Manolo Blahnik pumps. She seemed to be looking in our direction but then walked right past us, and Martin revealed not a flutter of recognition. There was another older woman with chestnut hair tied elegantly in a bun, who was sitting on a couch reading The Economist, but Martin didn’t so much as glance her way. Then I noticed a slight young woman, about my age, sitting on a Victorian armchair in the center of the lobby. She was likely the daughter of some wealthy real estate mogul, who’d had the privilege of growing up in this luxurious building or others like it.

  “Good morning, Lily, dear!” Martin called out to her.

  “Marty, darling!” she said, as she leapt to her feet and threw her graceful arms around his neck, giving him a lingering kiss on the mouth. Stunned, I watched as he placed a liver-spotted hand on her porcelain shoulder and briefly considered abandoning the trip. When a good-looking, forty-year-old businessman picked up the check for a twenty-two-year-old girl at Spice Market—that was one thing. When a portly septuagenarian made out with a girl fifty years his junior—that was crossing the line in my book.

  Then again, Lily wasn’t the stereotypical blond, big-breasted bombshell for whom most wealthy men, especially in New York, traded in their first wives when they got older. Lily was delicate, dressed all in white, with a cashmere sweater tied loosely around her narrow shoulders. Her auburn hair complemented her hazel eyes, and she was taller than Martin by about a foot and very thin—ninety pounds soaking wet, as my grandmother used to say. She had been reading Town & Country, her black-rimmed glasses balanced carefully on her diminutive nose.

  “Lily, this is Cassie,” Martin said.

  “Hello, dear,” Lily purred, “It’s lovely to finally meet you. Martin’s told me all about you.” She tucked the magazine in her monogrammed Goyard bag and flashed a smile, revealing teeth that rivaled the whiteness of her pants.

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” I said, leaving out the fact that Martin had never even mentioned her. I offered one of my sweaty hands to shake the dainty, manicured one she held toward me.

  “Well, are we ready?” Martin asked.

  Lily and I nodded in unison. Martin snapped his fingers and the valet immediately rushed forward to add Lily’s own collection of Louis Vuitton suitcases to our pile of luggage. We followed him to the street, where Martin’s Bentley stood idling. Before Martin and Lily even buckled their seat belts, they each lit up a cigarette. I’d always detested cigarette smoke, and as clouds of fumes circled my head, I almost passed out.

  Driving down Fifth Avenue en route to the tunnel, we passed a series of pricey doorman buildings with green awnings draped across brass poles, glinting in the morning sun. As we passed Bergdorf Goodman, the single most expensive, and most intimidating, department store in all of Manhattan, Lily piped up, “Darling, we have to stop into Bergdorf’s and look at the new Celine line. I hear it’s fabulous.”

  “I’m sure it is. And knowing you, you’ll have me buying all of it for you before the summer’s out,” Martin replied archly, and Lily giggled with an air of guilty glee.

  I reflected that the benefits of a May–December romance in New York City ran both ways. Martin got arm candy out of it, and Lily got Bergdorf’s. I wondered if Martin was still capable of having sex. Even though I’d love a pair of Sigerson Morrison shoes, an Anthony Nak necklace, and the run of a house in Southampton, I still wouldn’t have sex with Martin Pritchard for all the Bulgari jewels in the world.

  What seemed like days after leaving the Upper East Side, we arrived in Southampton. Right away I saw that the Hamptons were a serene blend of green pastures, corn and strawberry fields, deciduous
trees, country cottages converted to designer shops dotting quaint little villages, and a seemingly endless stretch of the roaring Atlantic. Martin parked the car in the heart of Southampton Village and took us on a brief walking tour. With relief, I breathed in my first gulp of fresh Hamptons air—Martin and Lily had chain-smoked Dunhill’s and Silk Cuts the entire ride out with the windows shut, and I’d spent the last few hours trapped in the backseat feeling more nauseated and hungover than ever.

  Main Street was impeccably clean and lined with old brick buildings that housed high-end stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Theory. Winding side streets with flagstone walkways and canopies of trees branched off into a blur of picturesque cafés, boutiques, and antique shops, and it felt more like New England than New York.

  “The shopping in East Hampton is much better,” Lily remarked as she studied a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos displayed in the window of the Shoe Inn.

  “Let’s stop at Barefoot Contessa,” Martin suggested. The Barefoot Contessa was apparently a small chain of gourmet grocery stores limited to the Hamptons—but, as Martin and Lily explained, famous throughout the country.

  “We have to get that pâté. It’s to die for,” Lily gushed with pseudosophistication. “Cassie, whenever Martin and I entertain, our first stop is always the Contessa. Their imported sheep’s milk cheeses are divine.”

  Entertain? She didn’t even live with him, and her airs rang completely false—at least to my ears. I’d already noted that Lily sprinkled her speech with so many sugar-coated “darlings,” “dears,” and superlatives that she could give you a toothache. She seemed to be playing the role of a spoiled 1950s housewife, but she couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me. She was clearly doing her best to behave like one of the middle-aged Hamptons “ladies who lunch.” I wondered what she did and how she spoke when she wasn’t sitting beside her seventy-year-old boyfriend. Did she giggle about former college flames and fashion victims she passed on the street like Alexis and I did?