by Leanne Shear
“You look soooooo gorgeous,” Annie said breathlessly from her perch on the edge of her bed an hour and a half later, after I’d strapped my second sandal, spritzed on her Michael Kors perfume, and stood in front of her for inspection. I had a nice bronze glow from the beach, which I accented with Benetint cheek glow makeup, a soft pink Becca lip gloss, and chandelier earrings. All purchased on yesterday’s shopping outing for the low price of $178.
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“You look amazing,” she said. “Knock ’em dead.”
On my way out the door, I found Travis collecting empty beer cans on the porch and putting them in the recycling bin. “Wow,” he said when he saw me. “You look beautiful.”
“Really?” I asked. His unexpected compliment had a calming effect, and I was able to stop obsessively fidgeting with my dress.
“Really,” he confirmed. And then again: “Wow.” I heard the wheels of James’s Range Rover crunching over the gravel driveway.
“I gotta go.” I smiled. “Wish me luck!” Then I dashed out into the sunlight.
James was already halfway to the door when I stepped out onto the porch. He looked me up and down admiringly. “You look beautiful,” he said softly, in a single moment making every penny of my splurge well worth it.
We drove in comfortable silence through East Hampton and Wainscott. Just before James turned off the highway to follow the sign for the Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge, I looked to my left and happened to spot something that made the little kid in me jump for joy.
“I didn’t know they had Carvel ice cream out here!” I said jubiliantly. “I love Carvel! Every year on my birthday, my parents used to get me a Carvel ice cream cake. Did you ever have one?”
“Yeah, of course I’ve had one,” James laughed. “But that one’s really sketchy. Look at all the grafitti all over it. And this whole plaza doesn’t exactly fit in with the rest of the Hamptons. This is the not-so-nice area of Bridgehampton. There’s actually a lot of crime around here.”
“What? There’s crime in Bridgehampton?” I asked incredulously. The Carvel was situated across the street from a Kmart, a Payless Shoe store, and a TJ Maxx, all laid out in typical suburban shopping plaza fashion. There was a little graffiti on the side, but it all looked harmless enough to me. I sat vigilantly looking out the window for thugs and criminals, but all I could see was the sun reflecting off the luxury cars as we wove closer to the polo match. We finally followed a white Rolls-Royce and silver Lexus onto a dirt path, which led us to a huge parking area stretched across a grassy lawn. When we climbed out of the car, I had the urge to take my shoes off and run through the soft greenery. The fragrant air was warm and breezy, and in the distance, I could see the far end of the polo field, where gorgeous men wearing their navy blue and white polo uniforms sat atop sinewy horses like knights.
I felt a thrill as James took my hand and we strolled over to the entrance, where a red carpet was cordoned off by—surprise—a velvet rope. Photographers and reporters obstructed my view as they swarmed like vultures around the people preening and posing on their way inside.
“Lydia! Down to the left!”
“Amanda! Over here!”
“Olivia! Smile up to your right!”
“Kimberly, can we get a back shot?”
The roar of the photographers’ pleas and the incessant click-click-click of their cameras filled the air with a palpable fervor. Immediately I could see that there were ten times more spectators gathered around the red carpet than there were watching polo. I trailed slowly behind James as he avoided the cacophony by veering behind the army of paparazzi and reporters. He bypassed “General Admission” and headed for “VIP Admission” instead.
I craned my neck to steal a glimpse of the action on the red carpet as we passed. I expected to see classic New York pairings of über-celebrities like Sarah Jessica and Matthew, Donald and Melania, Harrison and Calista. To my shock, I didn’t recognize a single one of the rail-thin, platinum-blond teenagers with hair extensions who were basking in the incessant flashes.
“Who are those girls?” I asked James in wonder.
“Camera whores,” he laughed. “Socialites. They’re only famous for being rich, and the only thing they’d love more than getting their picture taken would be having their own reality TV show.”
Social climbing, I was learning, was an extreme sport in the Hamptons—and way more challenging than polo. It never seemed to end. No matter how rich or well connected a person was, he or she always aspired to ascend to the next rung on the social ladder. In my opinion, their clamor to get invited to the right parties, have the right friends, belong to the right country clubs, and get their pictures into the right publications made for an extremely stressful lifestyle. These adolescent girls—clawing for camera time on the red carpet—acted as though their survival depended on getting their face into Hamptons magazine. I’d already encountered a lot of status hysteria at Spark, but here at the Bridgehampton polo match, it was all the more acute. By all appearances, the only role model these “camera whores” had ever known was Paris Hilton.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Edmonton,” the man who handed us our VIP admission bracelets greeted us solicitously. As he fastened the red bracelet around my wrist (general admission was yellow), I marveled at the endless strata of status in the Hamptons. Exclusivity bred exclusivity, like bad behavior begot bad behavior. At first I’d thought it was considered elite just to physically be in the Hamptons for the summer. Then it was a mark of distinction to be invited to the Bridgehampton polo match—and now here I was entering the VIP tent. What was next?
We meandered through the gates past the brigade of beefy security guards. The sun shimmered across the freshly cut grass, which filled the air with a distinctly summer smell. Along the way we passed clusters of people dressed in their summer best, talking to each other while looking around for someone better to talk to. Most of the women were svelte and beautiful. A few, however, sprinkling the crowd had the distinctive lioness look of a plastic surgery mishap. Their multiple nose jobs, skin pullings, cheekbone work, collagen-implanted lips, and Botox-injected foreheads made even Joan Rivers look natural.
James and I circled around the tent, grabbing the featured pearl diver martinis from a passing waiter’s tray. In the center of the VIP tent was a roped-off VVIP section, where Star Jones sat like Jaba the Hut—the only nonwhite face in the crowd. I watched as a young female reporter carrying a notebook and tape recorder respectfully approached her. Star shook her head slowly from side to side like Marie Antoinette rejecting a prisoner’s plea for clemency. Who knew a mere talk-show host was in a position to turn down media attention?
Kim Cattrall stood a few feet away examining her nails, looking bored. A young woman, presumably a fan, clamored on the outskirts of the VVIP section for her autograph, but Kim never even looked up from her manicure.
“Oh my God, that’s Kim Cattrall!” I whispered excitedly to James. “That’s Samantha! Did you see her?”
“Yeah, she’s here every year. Look at you, you’re starstruck,” he teased.
“No, I’m not,” I protested, taking a long, satisfying sip of my ice-cold martini. The coconut flavor from the Malibu rum was the perfect summer tonic. It hit me that I hadn’t eaten anything since my pit stop at Twice Upon A Bagel on the way home from Spark at 7:00 A.M. “I’m going to get something to eat. Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks,” James said. “But make sure you try one of the chocolate peanut butter cookies from Levain Bakery. They’re awesome.”
“Twist my arm,” I joked.
As I walked around the tent visiting all the buffet tables and selecting delectable hors d’oeuvres from each one, I couldn’t believe how many people I recognized. Ironically, I realized, I already knew all the “right” people in the Hamptons, but in a different way: I could look at almost any given face and know exactly what they drank, how they paid, and what kind of tipper they were.
My
mouth already full of prosciutto-wrapped melon, I accepted a grilled shrimp flatbread from a smiling chef, along with a wild mushroom tart and a piece of havarti dill cheese and some strawberries. I made my way over to the cookie station and filled a second plate with a chocolate chip cookie with walnuts and an oatmeal raisin cookie in addition to the highly recommended chocolate peanut butter cookie. Realizing that my martini was dangerously low, I then headed over to the bar, all the while scanning the crowd for Rosalind and her clique. Part of me hoped that I’d run into them now that I was armed with an expensive dress and gorgeous shoes. I hoped I hadn’t spent close to a month’s rent on an outfit they’d never see. I looked down and saw that I’d already gotten a dab of chocolate on my dress (so I couldn’t even return it after the match, as Annie had impishly hinted the night before). As I crossed the tent balancing my plates of delicacies, I realized I was the only one in the entire VIP section who was actually eating.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender, dressed in the usual catering uniform of a cheap tuxedo, asked me as I approached.
“Hi. How are you?” I asked him, juggling my plates and setting down my empty glass.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful, thank you. Can I have another pearl diver, please?”
“Of course.” He turned and reached for the pineapple juice.
“There you are,” James said, coming up beside me. “Cassie, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”
Flustered, I looked around for a place to set down my heaping plates. I was suddenly embarrassed to be the only one in VIP not only eating but eating a lot. But the bar was too cluttered with cocktail glasses and there was no available space for me to put my food, so I finally just dropped the plates into a trash bin next to the bar.
“This is Mr. and Mrs. Hildreth,” he said, introducing an impossibly well-kept older couple. “They’re very good friends of my family. This is Cassie Ellis.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands and stretching my mouth into the widest smile I could manage. I felt a little like Miss America.
“Likewise,” Mr. Hildreth said. “So, Cassie, how do you know our James? Did you go to Yale?”
“No, actually Cassie went to Columbia,” James answered for me. “Martin Pritchard introduced us.”
“How wonderful. How is Martin?” Mrs. Hildreth inquired.
“He’s doing very well,” I guessed. I hadn’t seen Martin in Finton’s much as of late and assumed he’d been spending most of his summer out here.
“Lovely,” Mrs. Hildreth said. “I just adore Martin. He has exquisite taste.”
“Did you grow up in Manhattan?” Mr. Hildreth asked.
“No, actually, I grew up in a suburb outside of Albany,” I said.
The Hildreths stared blankly. “How nice,” they said.
“And what is it that you do?” Mrs. Hildreth went on.
“I’m a—”
“Cassie’s a writer,” James interjected. “Screenplays.”
“Hey, gorgeous!” an all-too-familiar voice heralded in my direction. I looked up and saw Burberry Plaid Man, my high-tipping regular from Spark, sauntering over. “You clean up pretty good,” he said, standing too close to me.
“Hi,” I said weakly, turning back to the Hildreths and trying to keep the awkwardness of the encounter in check.
“Why aren’t you behind the bar?” Burberry Plaid Man boomed.
I fidgeted uncomfortably. Here I was, dressed to the nines, chatting with the VIPs of the Hamptons, and actually starting to feel like I belonged at the polo match. And now Burberry Plaid Man had changed all that with one sentence; it was as if I had been unmasked. I forced a smile and tried to ignore the comment, hoping the Hildreths weren’t paying attention.
“Here’s your martini, miss,” the bartender said. I was grateful for the shift in attention. Fortunately, Burberry Plaid Man was soon distracted by a socialite in a particularly revealing dress.
“So where are all your friends, James? Glen, and Tom, and that lovely Rosalind we met at your father’s party in May?” Mrs. Hildreth asked.
“Glen and Tom are meeting us later, but I’m afraid Rosalind isn’t going to be able to make it,” James replied. “She’s in Paris for the weekend with her father.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Mrs. Hildreth sighed. “She’s such a charming girl. It will be a lucky fellow who manages to put a ring on her finger.” She gave him a pointed look. I stared at my shoes, feeling small and overlooked. I wasn’t sure what was worse: that this woman obviously assumed that James and I weren’t a couple, or that she clearly felt that he and Rosalind should be. Leave it to Rosalind to ruin my day without even being there.
“Well, we have to be going,” Mr. Hildreth said suddenly, shaking James’s hand. “Please give our best to your father.” Mrs. Hildreth kissed James on two cheeks, European style, and then the two of them swooped away into the crowd without saying good-bye to me.
“It was nice to meet you,” I called after them, but they were already too busy making their rounds, ensuring they said their “hellos” to everyone in VIP. For people so allegedly well-pedigreed, they didn’t seem to have an ounce of manners or decency. The snobs here breed more selectively than the polo horses, I thought.
The Hildreths’ slight of me seemed to have escaped James’s attention entirely. As he looked around cheerfully for the bartender and signaled for another round of martinis, I contemplated how exactly I’d wanted him to react. After all, it wasn’t James’s fault that his father’s friends had been rude to me. But I did wish he’d been a little bit more conscious of my feelings—not to mention more forward about introducing me as his girlfriend.
I was thankful when my crisp, refreshing (third) martini was ready. I drew a long swallow from the glass and almost choked when I realized that in the two seconds I’d turned around to collect my cocktail, Amanda Hearst herself and her coterie of ladies-in-waiting had captured my boyfriend’s attention.
“Mandy!” James enthused. His usual calm and confident demeanor had evaporated like spilled vodka and been replaced by a giddy, schoolboy animation. “How are you, sweetie?”
Sweetie? I’d never heard him use that term, even with the Pearls Girls. My heart sank as I recalled Martin mentioning he’d heard through the Hamptons rumor mill that James had once dated Amanda Hearst.
“Hi, James.” She yawned, barely pausing to send him an air kiss. He watched her admiringly as she and her fawning contingent continued making their rounds.
“That was Amanda Hearst,” James said, turning to me as though he’d just remembered that I was there. “Sorry I didn’t introduce you. She’s so interesting, you’d love her. She’s really smart—she finished college in two years—she’s only nineteen, and she’s already set to star in the next Steven Soderbergh film . . .”
As James continued to gush over the simpering teenage beauty, I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this starstruck Amanda Hearst sycophant the same guy who only moments ago was calling her contemporaries camera whores?
“Did you used to date her?” I blurted out before my jealousy filter kicked in.
“What?” James asked, pausing in his reverie.
“Martin mentioned he thought you used to date her,” I said lamely.
“No. I met her in Gstaad a few years ago. And I always bump into her out here, but we’re just friends.”
“Oh.” Even though he claimed their relationship was innocent, it still bothered me that he was so dazzled by her presence. But then it occurred to me: even a Hamptonite like James could be affected by a “celebrity” like Amanda Hearst, who, for him, represented the next realm of high society. There were wealthy people. And then there were wealthy, established people. And then there were wealthy, established people like Amanda Hearst who came from an actual dynasty. There were lots of people in the Hamptons who had more money than the Hearsts, but nobody could touch their family name, which e
clipsed all else in this world.
I finished my still-cold martini in one gulp.
They weren’t even bartending nightmares anymore, just dreams where my body—now so used to mechanically making hundreds of thousands of drinks into the wee hours of the morning—couldn’t stop, even when I slept. Especially after I’d worked the longest, busiest shift of my life as I had at Spark the night before. I’d left the bar close to 8:00 A.M. on Sunday morning, dripping in sweat and dollars. In my sleep, I’d found myself straining for a nonexistent bottle of vodka perched on the highest shelf.
Agonizing lower back pain woke me up, and the sunlight pouring through the window made my dry eyes burn. Even though it was a perfect beach day, I had no plans to get out of bed. I’d worked roughly twenty-four hours in the last two days, and even though I was $1,350 richer, I was mentally and physically drained. I reached around the floor for the FIJI water bottle I’d embezzled from Spark only hours before. As I sat up, my head began to throb, and even raising the bottle to my lips caused my arm to ache with exhaustion.
I rolled over and did some calculations in my head. Even after accounting for the monstrous expense of my new outfit, I’d still netted more than $300 for the weekend, which meant my July rent check wouldn’t bounce. I squinted over at Annie’s reclining form and saw that her eyes were open.
“What time is it?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
“About eleven,” I said.