by Leanne Shear
I was impressed. “I’m doing okay, how are you?”
“Can’t complain,” he said, looking pleasantly surprised at my friendliness. I doubted that too many people at the benefit had taken the time between their white wine sipping and networking to ask how he was doing. “It’s a perfect day. I’m on the beach, in the sun, looking out at the ocean.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely great weather for a clambake,” I agreed.
“What can I get for you?”
“Two Buds, please,” I said, figuring I could offer James his new favorite beer as a peace offering. The bartender was right—the setting was perfect and there was nothing to carp about. It was my all-time favorite part of the day at my all-time favorite time of year: around six o’clock in the evening at the tail-end of summer. The sunlight was radiant with just the slightest bit of haze, which gave the whole scene a dreamy effect. The air was perfectly warm and comfortable, and the chatter of flocks of seagulls mingled with the sound of the surf crashing on the beach. I desperately wanted to capture the moment and was overcome by a bittersweet feeling—a tinge of the end-of-summer blues. The last days of summer were slipping away and fall was just around the corner. I needed to relax and enjoy myself and stop overanalyzing everything.
“We don’t have Bud,” the bartender said, shattering my reverie.
“What?” I asked, disappointed. “Well, what do you have?”
“Stella and Paulaner.”
“I guess I’ll take two Stellas.”
“Coming right up.”
“I bartend too,” I told him. “Over at Spark.” With other bartenders I enjoyed displaying my Spark credentials like a Purple Heart.
“Wow. That must be a great gig.”
“Yeah, it’s been pretty amazing. Do you just work private parties?”
“Well, this summer I worked for Claws on Wheels caterers doing all these charity events. It’s not great, but at least it’s steady. This year was some sort of record-breaker—there were like fifty benefits. Were you at this clambake last year?” He pulled two green Stella bottles out of a red ice-filled cooler.
“No, this is my first time.”
“The weather’s much better this year. I worked it last year and it was overcast all day. It never actually rained, but it looked like it was going to, and all these frantic girls were running around trying to get everything inside the tents. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen.”
I gleefully imagined Rosalind and the girls bemoaning the moisture’s effect on their perfectly styled hair as they wobbled around, their $1,000 Christian Louboutin heels sinking into the sand, trying to get all the silent auction merchandise to shelter. I giggled. “I’m sorry I missed that.”
“What’s this charity for anyway?”
“It’s called Children of America,” I said. “They raise money for inner-city kids.” I pulled out the little booklet I’d been handed when we’d arrived. Rosalind was on the cover along with several other Pearls Girls, posing like beauty contestants, flashing their pearly whites and holding up a banner that read “Help Save America’s Urban Youth!”
The bartender paged though it, smiling sardonically. “A charity for inner-city kids, and the whole brochure looks like a freakin’ Ralph Lauren catalog,” he quipped.
“It’s pretty bad,” I agreed with a smile. It felt good to talk to someone who actually recognized the inherent hypocrisy in events like these. Leave it to a bartender to get right to the heart of things. I looked up at him conspiratorially. “Wanna do a shot?”
Without hesitation, he grabbed the bottle of Patrón and filled two squeaky clean shot glasses. Tequila was definitely the shot of choice of the Hamptons bartender. “I’m Ben,” he said after we shot our tequila.
“Cassie,” I said, leaving a $10 bill on the bar top. “Thanks for the beers.”
As I made my way back to the tent to find James, two perfectly coiffed Pearls Girls fluttered by me. I caught a snippet of their conversation.
“I’m exhausted,” the first one moaned. “This is the fourth benefit I’ve been to this weekend alone.”
“Tell me about it,” her friend agreed. “No one parties in the Hamptons for the sake of partying anymore, there’s always something to benefit. It’s getting to be a little much.”
“Did you hear that Marnie Porter has to have the Blue Moon Ball at their estate next weekend, after Labor Day, since all the rest of the summer weekends were taken up?”
“No! Really?! That’s horrible! How did Children of America get Labor Day weekend?”
“The Guild Hall benefit got moved to last weekend because the Johnsons were leaving for St. Tropez this weekend, and Rosalind can make anything happen.”
I shook my head, barely disguising my disgust, and taking note of their benefit-chic outfits, which, combined with all the tasteful jewelry that dangled from their wrists and ears, had probably cost somewhere in the high six-figure range. These women would probably have been appalled to learn that ten or twenty years prior, benefits in the Hamptons had started as a way for the nouveau riches to get out of their summer estates and meet one another. I’d read an article in the Times on the train last week about how all these poor rich people were locked up in their mansions with no way to show off their wealth until the summer benefit season began in earnest. Snide old-money people called them “pay parties,” since the people (presumably of the less established, new-money variety) who weren’t invited to any dinner parties or nonbenefit get-togethers could pay their way into the charity path and hence get some well-deserved recognition for themselves or their homes. The Children of America benefit was relatively cheap at $350 a ticket, but I’d heard about benefits that regularly cost up to $50,000 for a table of ten. Buying tables at benefits seemed to be what you did when you graduated from buying tables with bottle service at Spark.
I finally found James underneath the tent walking toward his table with a plate piled high with lobster, spinach salad, potato galette, and grilled asparagus. “Hey, baby,” I said, offering him the beer. “They don’t have Bud so I grabbed you a Stella.”
“I already have a drink,” he said, gesturing toward a brimming flute of champagne on the table.
“Oh. Okay,” I said, clutching the rejected bottle of beer. “I guess I’ll go get some lobster.”
James took his seat without saying a word. What the hell was going on? I turned on my heels and walked away, half-expecting him to follow me. But when I looked back, I saw him sitting there, chatting away with some people I didn’t know, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I marched up to the beginning of the central buffet line and grabbed a plate and some hardware. This time I shunned the bibs, berating myself for having been so childish before.
“Hey, you work at Spark, right?” someone asked.
I turned around and saw a handsome investment banker–looking kind of guy sipping on what I would have bet my life was a Jack and Coke. He was wearing taupe linen pants, a soft yellow short-sleeved Polo shirt, and a rodentlike smile.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. Though I’d enjoyed my little bonding session with the bartender outside, at that exact moment, I didn’t need someone announcing to the crowd that I slung drinks for a living, especially considering the inexplicable turbulence with James. Being “recognized” in the Hamptons was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it was nice to enjoy a little celebrity, and it often helped me get free drinks from fellow bartenders. Also, it was sometimes fun to be fawned over by the peons who couldn’t gain admittance to Spark and hoped they could get on the coveted list by befriending me. On the other hand, when I was dressed up in an expensive frock, carrying expensive shoes at a social event populated by socialites and heiresses, I hated being reminded of the fact that I was inexorably working class and would have to leave the party hours before everyone else so I could rush to Spark and set up my station behind the bar.
“Cassie, right?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember me?
” I hated that question. Only rude people asked it, putting the other person right on the spot. And I wasn’t in the mood to be polite.
“No.”
“My name’s Simon. I was at Spark a couple of weeks ago. I had a tab with you at the bar, and I asked for your phone number.”
I looked at him, hoping that something in his face would jog my memory, but I had zero recollection of him. I’d probably served close to ten thousand people throughout the summer, and most of the younger male Spark crowd looked exactly the same to me. Plus, a lot of the guys who went out on a Saturday night in the Hamptons were on a raging mission to hook up. As the night wore on, their possibilities became bleaker and bleaker, and after 3:00 A.M., you’d see a lot of good-looking guys going home with some pretty banged-up-looking girls out of sheer desperation. “Last call” could sometimes be the biggest albatross of the female bartender, because stragglers were still lurking around, hoping to hook up. I, the lone female left, frequently became the last resort for the desperate and horny. It was at this point that the bouncers generally yelled, “If you’re not sleeping with the help, get the hell out!” Ever devoted to their mission to get laid, the guys would then approach the bar and proposition yours truly in a final effort to get some summer lovin’. Needless to say, the offer was not that appealing. Inebriated guys were always slurring pickup lines to me at 4:00 A.M.—how was I supposed to remember this one?
“Anyway,” he continued, “when I called the number you gave me, it was for Pepperoni’s Pizza Parlor.”
My face turned the color of the steamed lobsters. Now I remembered who he was. A couple of Saturdays before he’d been hanging around, wasted out of his skull, and Annie and I had thought it would be funny to give him a phony number. The Pepperoni’s delivery menu was in plain view behind the bar. I never thought I’d see him again.
I laughed uneasily. “Whoops! Sorry, I must have accidentally given you the wrong number.”
His smile had long vanished. “So what are you doing at the Children of America clambake?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just surprised to see you here. Although, come to think of it, what an excellent opportunity for someone like you to do a little gold-digging.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. “Excuse me? I’m here because my boyfriend is on the board of Children of America and he organized the whole clambake.”
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
“James Edmonton,” I proclaimed, savoring the weight of his family name.
“Edmonton’s your boyfriend?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” I said, my voice rising an octave or two.
“I’m in his group at Goldman.”
I nodded distractedly.
“And he’s never mentioned you.”
My head spun as I tried to process the implications of what he’d just said. I wracked my brain but couldn’t think of a good defensive comeback. My arsenal was empty. I gave him my best death stare and retreated. I needed to find James.
Navigating my way through clusters of future Stepford wives and young brokers boasting about their latest conquests—deals, girls, houses, cars—I searched frantically for James, quaking with rage. I couldn’t believe the audacity of that guy. I stopped short and drank down half of my beer in one gulp, then briefly thought about seeing if the bar had any Jameson, but decided to keep looking for James instead. I stalked determinedly around the perimeter of the party, following the soft glow of the tiki torches. I barely registered the crystal-clear sky, which was just starting to freckle with brilliant white stars. I finally found James standing beside the silent auction table, a glass of champagne bubbling in his left hand. He was surrounded by a group of younger guys in their early twenties. Each one of them was hanging on his every word, their little hearts leaping in admiration beneath their Valentino sports coats.
“. . . I don’t know about that, but he’s certainly in better shape than he was last year in Aspen. We were staying at Little Nell, and Carson over here got so drunk at this party at Caribou that he went back to the wrong room . . .” James began, but before he could finish, his words were drowned out by the group’s overzealous laughter.
Even in the middle of my exasperation, I couldn’t help but think how great he looked. Just the muscular shape of his forearm sent a little tingle of attraction through me. We needed to make up immediately from our little tiff or whatever it was so we could have hot makeup sex down the beach, out of everyone’s sight. I had plenty of time for a romp in the sand before I had to leave for work. But first I had to tell him how the little weasel he worked with had insulted me.
I walked purposefully up to him, determined to lure him away from the crowd. “Hey,” I said, pushing through his groupies and arriving at his side.
He gave me a half-smile and said nothing.
“James,” one of the guys called out, “tell us the one about when Carson crashed his Vespa into that old woman in St. Barths!”
I tugged on his sleeve, looking up at him imploringly.
“That’s a good one,” James said, laughing dryly and ignoring me. “You see, Carson is the little brother I never had . . .”
Why was he ignoring me in front of all these people? What the hell was going on?
Finally, sheer embarrassment snapped me out of my stupor, and I abandoned the group. I knew I needed to talk to James, but I wasn’t about to make a scene. I’d show up at his house after work if I had to. In the meantime, I needed another drink.
“Hey, Cassie,” Ben said as I approached the bar, and suddenly I envied him. While I was struggling to survive a series of never-ending awkward social encounters, he was safe behind the bar—protected by a thick piece of wood from vicious socialites and neglectful boyfriends. “How’s it going?”
“I need a drink.”
“That bad, huh?
“Sort of. I hardly know anybody here, and my boyfriend’s ignoring me . . .” I knew I was probably revealing too much information to a guy I barely knew, but the words just flowed—I needed to talk to someone and none of my usual allies were there. A bartender was understandably the best stand-in. I’d been on the other side myself countless times.
“Two Stellas?” he asked sympathetically.
“Just one, thanks.”
“You’d better make it two,” said a male voice behind me.
I turned around and almost fainted with relief. Travis, dressed in cargo shorts, a worn-in T-shirt that read ST. JAMES FIRE DEPT. ANNUAL 5 MILE RUN: 1985, and Reef flip-flops, had materialized out of nowhere. He stuck out like a sore thumb amid the overdressed bankers in pressed button-downs and sparkling Asprey cuff links.
“It’s so good to see you!” I said, flinging my arms around his midsection like a little kid. I nearly knocked him over with my embrace.
“Hello, Cassie,” a female voice from behind him greeted me. Travis stepped aside to reveal Camilla, who, with her immaculate updo and strapless white dress, looked like Audrey Hepburn on the way to the prom.
“Hi, Camilla,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fabulous!” she announced. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to find Rosalind and see if I can be of any help. The poor thing has been working so hard to make sure tonight’s a success for the charity. She’s such a saint.”
“I’ll meet you under the tent in a few minutes,” Travis said.
Camilla turned to him with a flicker of disdain in her eyes and then hissed under her breath, “You could have at least worn a decent shirt.” She wobbled off, and I was impressed by her ability to maintain her debutante posture while walking in the sand wearing five-inch heels.
“Is everything okay between you guys?” I asked.
“Whatever.” He sighed, then changed the subject. “You don’t have to work tonight?”
“I do. I just promised James I’d come by for a few hours. What time is it?”
Travis consulted his Nike running watch. “Quarter to eight.”
“
That’s it?”
“Did you want it to be later?”
“I just feel like I’ve been here forever,” I said with a sigh, gripping the sand with my clenched toes and digging a small hole with the ball of my foot. “I guess I should call a cab soon. I have to be at work at nine-thirty, and they always take like an hour to come.”
“Why don’t you just take my car?” Travis offered.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” he said, rummaging through one of his many pockets and retrieving his keys. “It’s parked over by the bathrooms. I’ll just get a ride to the Talkhouse later with someone here.”
“Don’t be so sure. It’s not exactly a Talkhouse crowd,” I grumbled.
“Are you okay?” Travis asked. “You seem a little off.”
“I’m fine.” I sighed. “I think I’m just stressed because I have to be at work later. I hate always having to be worried about what time it is.”
“You guys want a shot?” Ben interrupted.
“Sure,” Travis said. “And I’m almost ready for another Stella.”
“Sure thing. I got plenty of them. They ordered twenty cases, but you two are the only ones drinking beer. One more for you, Cassie?”
“Uh . . . no, thanks,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I think I’m gonna to switch to wine. A glass of white, please.”
“Coming right up,” Ben said, as he finished pouring the three shots of Patrón. The three of us raised our tequila.
“To helping inner-city children in Harlem, Detroit, and Compton,” I said, the irony clearly registering in my voice.
“Cheers,” Travis and Ben echoed, downing the fragrant liquor and slamming the glasses on the bar.
“I’m gonna go find Camilla and get something to eat. I’m starving,” Travis said, grabbing his second Stella.
“Okay. I’ll see you back at the house later. Thanks for letting me borrow your car.”
I didn’t know if it had something to do with the aged tannins or what, but this summer I’d learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that the more expensive wine was, the drunker it got you. It was a mathematical certainty. I glanced down at the bottle on the bar. The fact that Ben was pouring Chalk Hill 1997 Vineyard Selection Botrytis Semillon ($225 a bottle) like it was Beringer White Zinfandel was irrefutable evidence that I was at a Pearls Girls–sponsored event. My head buzzing with the wine, Patrón, and Stella, I once again determined that I needed to find James and smooth everything over before I left for work so I wouldn’t suffer an anxiety meltdown behind the bar.