The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  I looked around at the hordes of Talkhouse customers spilling out onto the outside deck and couldn’t believe the place was packed to capacity without promoters.“Is it this busy every night?” I asked.

  “This is nothing,” Pat said, finishing the second half of his beer. “On the weekends it’s twice as busy.”

  I was green with envy—the bartenders at the Talkhouse clearly made a lot more money than I did and had to put up with zero club politics. “What time do you guys get out of here?” I asked.

  “Three forty-five or four at the latest. We just leave the money in the register, take our tips, and go.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “We don’t get out till at least seven.”

  “Yep. Sucks.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “So how long have you been working here?” Annie asked him.

  “A little over twenty years,” Pat replied, letting out another, longer belch.

  “Twenty years?” I marveled. “That’s a long time.”

  “I love it here,” he said. “I’ll never leave.”

  “I can’t blame you,” Jake said. “Your setup here’s amazing. It’s always packed with serious drinkers—unlike Spark, where you get all those people who just come in for the ‘scene,’ stay all night, and only order one drink.”

  “And it’s steady,” Pat added. “We can always count on making a certain amount.”

  I felt my back pocket buzzing and realized my cell phone was ringing. I felt a jolt of excitement when I saw the Caller ID: “James cell.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, dashing out the door and onto the patio, where I did my best to step away from the crowd.

  “Hey!” I said happily.

  “Hey, how are you?” James’s voice answered.

  “Great! How are you?”

  “Good. It sounds noisy. Are you still at work?”

  “No, I’m at the Talkhouse with Jake and Annie. Are you in the Hamptons yet?”

  “No. I’m coming out tomorrow night. My dad and I just finished dinner at Perse. Now we’re at the Oak Room having a drink with a couple of his business partners who’re in town.”

  “Cool,” I said, looking over my shoulder at Annie and Jake who had left Pat and were now dancing wildly to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” “Oh, I love this song!”

  “I’ll let you go, Cass, it sounds like you’re having a good time. But hey, I wanted to ask you, are you doing anything on Saturday during the day?”

  “Nope. I don’t have to be at work until nine-thirty. Why?”

  “Do you like polo?”

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  “Would you like to be my date at the Bridgehampton polo match?”

  I’d never heard of the Bridgehampton polo match, but it sounded impossibly elegant. Images of wide-brimmed hats, slim trophy wives, poised horses, and mimosas in crystal goblets swirled in my head. I pictured myself arm in arm with James wearing a polka-dotted dress evocative of the one Julia Roberts had worn in Pretty Woman during the famous polo scene. “I would love to.”

  “Great. It starts at noon. Will I get to see you tomorrow?”

  “That could be arranged,” I said, smiling.

  “I’ll call you on my way out there.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  I closed my phone with a sigh and spent a gleeful moment thinking about James. I did a little bounce as I returned back inside to where Annie, Jake, and Pat were toasting with yet another round of shots.

  “Hey!” Annie said, smiling. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “James,” I said amorously.

  “Your boyfriend?” Jake taunted.

  “Yes,” I responded proudly. “My boyfriend.”

  I loved saying that. I couldn’t say it enough. The previous weekend James had taken me to Main Beach in East Hampton before work for a picnic of ’97 King Estate Pinot Noir, Cabot’s Vermont sharp cheddar cheese, and grapes from the Farmer’s Market in Amagansett. Who’d have thought little Cassie Ellis from 217 Poplar Street in Albany, New York, would be sitting on a pristine beach in the Hamptons enjoying expensive wine with the man of her dreams? No longer were the Hamptons merely a backdrop for Martin and Lily’s pill-popping and swinging—they had finally started to become my haven as well.

  As we reclined on the blue blanket, sipping the wine, James had turned to me and said, “I don’t want to see anyone else, Cassie. Just you.”

  Five minutes earlier I hadn’t thought I could feel any happier, but his proclamation made me elated. I couldn’t have scripted a more perfect fairy-tale scenario. “Me neither,” I replied blissfully, and we’d consummated the agreement with a lingering kiss. As I sat there in James’s arms looking up at his contented expression, I felt like I was right where I belonged.

  James’s phone interrupted our moment. He retrieved it from his pocket and snapped it open. “Hey, Rosalind,” he’d said. And just like that my security and happiness vanished in the sea air. Rosalind represented everything I could never be—a wealthy, impossibly well-bred woman who navigated James’s elite world with ease because it was her world as well. She was a symbol of the side of him I still wasn’t sure I could ever relate to—even if I was his girlfriend. “No, I’m not going to be able to make it,” he went on. “I’m spending the day with Cassie.”

  My spirits lifted immediately and I wrapped my arms around his neck in a rapturous embrace. It was official. He’d chosen me over Rosalind.

  Annie, Jake, and I trailed around the Talkhouse, drinking beers and dancing in all of the rooms, first to live rock then to reggae, then to 1980s’ hits. We didn’t have to pay for a thing, though as the night and the drinks wore on, I was more inclined to leave twenties for every bartender who served me even a simple beer. I was probably spending more than I would have if I was paying for everything.

  “I’m starving,” Annie howled, grabbing her flat stomach.

  “They have hot dogs and oysters out back,” Jake said.

  “Really?” Annie asked. “Live music, pool, cheap beer, and hot dogs? This really is the best bar in America.”

  I followed Annie outside in search of late-night snacks. A bright white banner proclaiming “Shuckergirl” hung above a homespun wooden stand. Two girls wearing shirts that read MOTHERSHUCKER were standing over oysters nestled in crushed ice. Hot dogs were roasting on the grill behind them, next to bags of potato chips and vats of cocktail sauce.

  “I’ll have a hot dog please,” Annie said.

  “Make that two. And six oysters,” I added.

  One of the girls tucked two hot dogs into yellow Martin’s Potato Rolls, while the other dug through the ice and started shucking oysters at a remarkable speed. I left a twenty for the girls. I didn’t have a care in the world, and better yet, on Saturday, I was going to one of the biggest events of the Hamptons summer season with my boyfriend James.

  Annie squirted fluorescent yellow mustard on her hot dog, and I pulled out my cell phone to check the time. “Oh my God, it’s already almost three. I should go.”

  “Why? We’re having fun,” she said, slowly biting into her hot dog, the mustard oozing out the sides. Only Annie could make eating processed pork look sexy.

  “Because we have to work tomorrow night, and I’ve been getting no writing done. I was going to try to squeeze some in tomorrow before Travis and the crew get here. I feel like all I do is work and drink.”

  “I know, but it’s the summer. It’s so hard to resist going out.”

  “Tell Jake, Pat, and Andy I said good-bye,” I said, standing up. “I’m afraid to go in and tell them myself, because they’ll end up convincing me to stay and have one more shot.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you back at the house.”

  As I was heading out toward the street, a stark-naked woman suddenly bolted past me, screaming her head off.

  “Are you okay?” I called after her, alarmed, fearing she had been the victim of some thug’s drunken sexual rampage.

  “She’s fine,”
Andy called from the Talkhouse doorway. “I told her I’d give her twenty bucks if she ran down Main Street naked. I can’t believe she did it.”

  Ten

  ____________

  PEARL DIVER

  “This is adorable!” Annie gushed, holding up a short, ruffly, sunshine-yellow Miss Sixty skirt. We were in the middle of an East Hampton shopping spree, stalking Main Street and Newtown Lane for the perfect polo outfit.

  “It’s a little short for the event, don’t you think?” I mused. “I think I’m better off sticking with something a little more classic.”

  “I don’t think it’s too short,” Annie said. “It’s so cute, and you have hot legs. With a pair of strappy heels and your tan, this would be so sexy.”

  “I’m just not feeling it,” I said. “Let’s go check out Henry Lehr.” We left Scoop Beach, which catered to women who were young, hip, and a little flashy, and crossed the street to Henry Lehr. Contrary to Scoop, where bright terry-cloth beach dresses were splashed across the window display like paint in a Jackson Pollock piece, Henry Lehr’s window displayed an elegantly tailored summer suit the color of crème fraiche.

  “This looks like stuff my mom would wear,” Annie said disdainfully, eyeing a sea-foam green blazer.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Let’s go to Calypso. I love that pink dress they have in the window.”

  “Cassie, that dress has got to be at least a thousand dollars,” Annie warned.

  “I’m not saying I’m going to buy it,” I said testily. “I just want to try it on.”

  We crossed the street again and walked into the stately brick building that housed Calypso, one of the high-end favorites of East Hampton. Dozens of feminine floral prints and gauzy, flowing materials graced the mannequins. The boutique’s signature gold and silver thong sandals, which I’d seen on nearly every woman since I’d arrived in the Hamptons, were displayed throughout the store. I went straight for the sunset-pink dress and held it up against my body. It was made of silk and cut on the bias. “I think this is perfect,” I breathed.

  “How much?” Annie asked.

  “When did you become the practical one?” I teased. I checked the price tag and winced: $900.

  “I just don’t want you to blow a month’s rent on a dress you’re only going to wear once. I know James is great, but I bet he’ll think you look just as beautiful in Banana Republic as you do in Calypso.”

  I wasn’t sure how to admit to Annie that deep down I was pretty sure James was more of a Calypso kind of guy—and that the thought of showing up improperly attired to the Bridgehampton polo match terrified me. I thought back to how I’d felt at the barbeque standing next to Rosalind and her friends—and no matter how unglamorous and juvenile I’d felt that day, I knew that this would be much worse. I didn’t want him to regret taking me. While in most situations it seemed like standing out and leaving your mark was optimal, I knew that with James’s crew, blending in was much more important. Now that I was James’s girlfriend, I had to look like I belonged with him. Plus it was a gorgeous dress, and after all the times in my life when I’d made the practical, less-expensive choice, I felt like I deserved it.

  “Well, the good news is it’s slightly cheaper than a month’s rent,” I said.

  “Cassie . . .” she started to protest, but I was already halfway to the dressing room. Just as I got there, an aggressive saleswoman, who no doubt worked on commission, snatched the dress from my hands and said with a forced smile, “Would you like to try this on?”

  “Um . . . yes, please,” I stammered.

  Her eyes quickly scanned my less-than-stylish outfit, lingering on my Old Navy flip-flops. “Would you like to borrow a pair of heels so you have a better idea of how the dress should look?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “That would be great.”

  She vanished, and after I’d pulled the door closed, I tugged my J. Crew wife-beater over my head, slinked out of my cargo skirt, and stepped into the pink dress. As I was in the midst of yanking it up over my torso, the saleswoman returned and without warning threw open the dressing room door.

  “Never step into a dress,” she instructed. “Women should always dress by putting the garment over their head.”

  I stepped out of the dress, painfully aware of my SpongeBob Squarepants thong, and lifted the dress over my head and let it cascade down over my body.

  “Turn around,” she said authoritatively. She zipped me up. “Now slip on the heels.”

  I took the delicate strappy silver heels and pulled them onto my unpedicured feet, hoping I wasn’t desecrating some cardinal rule about how a woman is supposed to don sandals. I stood up and bravely faced the mirror. What I saw almost took my breath away.

  The dress was beautiful. I was beautiful. The pale pink contrasted dramatically against my tan skin and dark hair. It fit me perfectly, smoothing out all my imperfections. It embraced each curve of my body without clinging or puckering, hugging my hips and flowing down over my legs.

  “The dress fits you well,” the saleswoman remarked, more gently this time. I couldn’t wait to show Annie.

  “Wow,” she gasped. “You look like a princess.”

  “I have to get it, Annie. And the shoes.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, “It’s really beautiful, but it’s a lot of money. Are those Pearls Girls really worth it?”

  I looked away, knowing she’d read me like a book. “I really want to look good. It’s the first big Hamptons event I’m actually going to be a part of.”

  “That’s not true,” Annie said playfully. “We’re at all the big Hamptons parties!”

  “Yeah, behind the bar! This is the first one I’m actually invited to.”

  “Well, we did make really good money last weekend,” she conceded. “And I’m sure tonight will be huge, especially since you’re back at the front bar with Jake.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ll make it all back this weekend. This will be my one big summer splurge, and after this, no more.”

  I slipped back into the dressing room and quickly changed out of the dress, then brought it along with the shoes to the register.

  “Charge it,” I said, handing over my plain old AmEx Blue card. I felt a small sense of satisfaction recalling how the saleswoman had looked at me when I’d walked into the store; it felt good to show her that appearances could be deceiving, and that I could actually afford the dress. At the same time, I hoped my card wouldn’t get denied.

  “So did you get any work done while I was at the beach this morning?” Annie asked as we left Calypso and sauntered down Main Street.

  “Yeah, I actually got a lot done,” I said. Even though I had woken up with cotton mouth and a headache, I hadn’t been able to pry myself away from the computer. I’d sprung out of bed, inspired to work on my screenplay, and found myself overflowing with ideas. Suddenly, faced with the prospect of going to the Bridgehampton polo match with James, my Cinderella character’s perspective was perfectly clear to me. I’d been in the middle of feverishly tapping out a description of the Pearls Girls as a sort of slew of wicked stepsister types when Annie had burst through the door, wearing a bright pink bikini and smelling like a beachy combination of fresh air and tanning oil, to accompany me on our shopping excursion.

  “I like shopping in the Hamptons so much better than the city,” I confessed to Annie, as we stopped into Scoop du Jour and emerged with two enormous neopolitan cones.

  “Why? There’s such a better selection in the city,” she said.

  “Yeah, but everyone out here goes shopping with beach hair and flip-flops,” I said.

  “Not just any flip-flops—haute couture flip-flops,” Annie corrected me with a scoff. “And their beach hair is probably styled by Garren himself for a mere five thousand dollars a tousle.” Garren was the celebrity stylist who was on call all summer long in the Hamptons for the emergency hair fixes of heiresses and socialites.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, pausing to look in
the Tiffanys window.

  “I’m serious. Remember when we saw Gwyneth Paltrow at Spark that night and we loved her because she was all casual and beached out?” Annie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, later on I saw her picture in Us Weekly and it gave all the details of her outfit and that tank top was like eight hundred dollars and her flip-flops were actually Manolos!”

  “You’re kidding!” I laughed. “And here I thought she shopped at Target like the rest of us.”

  We decided to stop in Tiffanys just for the fun of it, and Annie asked to try on a $500,000 engagement ring. “I can dream, can’t I?” she said with a wink as a man in a three-piece suit removed it from the case. While she was admiring her sparkling hand, I noticed a delicate choker of freshwater pearls in a glass case at the far end of the store. I walked over for a closer look.

  “Can I help you with anything, miss?”a salesman asked.

  “No thanks, I was just looking,” I said.

  “Would you like to try them on?” he asked, following my gaze.

  “Um . . . okay.”

  He took a tiny key out of a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, opened the case, and carefully pulled the pearls from the display. He helped me fasten the clasp around my neck and then handed me a mirror.

  “What are you doing?” Annie asked, suddenly appearing beside me.

  “Nothing. I was just trying them on.”

  “Pearls?” she said, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “You’ve been in the Hamptons too long.”

  I felt a tingle of excitement when I woke up on Saturday morning, even though my head pounded with my second hangover in two days (this one brought on by a late-night champagne celebration with Jake, Kyle, and the other Spark bartenders after we’d each made $705—almost the cost of my clothing splurge earlier that day). I forced myself to guzzle a big glass of water as I waded through the cigarette butts and slumbering bodies on my way to the shower. I toted a plastic shower caddy equipped with Dove Body Wash, Pantene Pro-V shampoo and conditioner, a pumice stone, a loofah, and a fresh razor, determined to beautify myself as much as humanly possible. My hair still smelled of beer and cigarettes.