How the Other Half Hamptons

by Jasmin Rosemberg

  This wasn’t the fabulous celebrity mecca where regulars like Kelly Ripa, Star Jones, or Alec Baldwin roamed freely. The party haven where the Hilton sisters, the Olsen twins, or the Hearst girls caroused famously. The photo op that Patrick McMullan, Rob Rich, or WireImage longed to capture.

  This was the utter antithesis of fabulous. This was where fabulous came to die (or, should it wish, play flip cup). This was a camp-like, beer-drenched, post-college purgatory.

  This was Frat-Hamptons. And like it or not, Jamie was discovering the secret life of shareholders.

  True, she’d seen how the other half Hamptoned before...for like a minute. But—judging from that one time she’d stopped by a co-worker’s share house—the houses appeared livable enough, at the very least a means to an end. Besides, she thought it might actually be fun to have people around her all the time (and by people, she of course meant guys). Although none of the ones here seemed to impress her all that much, and the girls were beyond irritating, and, well, she’d escaped flip cup in college the first time around.

  And where in the world was he? Not that her misery was entirely due to the fact that Jeff wasn’t here...though she’d be lying if she denied that his presence might have made things somewhat more interesting.

  In fact, hearing Justin Timberlake’s “Summer Love” erupt from someone’s iPod speakers a full flight away, Jamie decided anything might have been more interesting than killing the nine-to-eleven pre-going-out time slot with a plastic cup and a disturbing amount of beer. Why, Jamie didn’t even like beer. And she certainly didn’t like any game that monopolized every guy’s attention.

  Plus, if she’d known any better, she wouldn’t have rushed to get ready at such lightning-quick speed. A nightmare of a process to begin with, further complicated by the fact that the full-length mirror they’d so wisely brought along had gone missing.

  Now, a compact mirror might have been misplaced. But a seven-foot-tall, flower-trimmed object? Not a chance. When Jamie discovered this, something in her just snapped, setting her off on a small rampage.

  She’d knocked on nearly every door in the course of her investigation, all the while picturing exactly how it’d gone down. She imagined that some girls doing a routine tour just happened upon the large mirror, and joyfully abducted it in conspiracy. Jamie couldn’t be too angry about it; she herself would probably have done the same. But upon her polite inquiry, each group hastily told her no (Ilana even did so with a smirk) before eagerly resuming elaborate grooming procedures. And as she stumbled across each set of open luggage bags and straightening irons and stray heels on her way out, Jamie grew increasingly frustrated. However, when it became apparent she wasn’t making even the slightest bit of progress, she had no choice but to abandon the search for the moment. True, recovering the mirror would prove no easy feat, though neither would be getting ready in such a limited time frame.

  Their delayed start didn’t help matters: After devoting so much time to ransacking the house, Jamie and her friends had lost out on any available bathrooms. Strategizing, Allison stationed herself in front of one downstairs (which she didn’t expect to free up any time soon, as it was occupied by nothing short of a small female army), while Rachel camped out at one close to their room upstairs (similarly unpromising, and frighteningly coed). In the meantime, Jamie began applying her makeup at a tiny mirror she discovered in the kitchen (acceptable only because it took her the longest to get ready by far).

  Even so, she wasn’t having much luck. Though she’d never considered herself shy, she’d also never applied makeup in front of such a captive male audience. And who would have guessed guys found makeup application so fascinating? Why, she’d only just begun when she observed a growing group (assembled early to pre-game) following her every brushstroke in amazement.

  Fortunately, Rachel soon signaled from upstairs that the bathroom was free. Barging in with all their toiletries and clothes in hand, the three of them slammed the door and frantically locked themselves inside the four-foot-square cube.

  At this point it was every woman for herself. Because no one else is going to care if you smudge your mascara, leave a kink in your otherwise-straightened hair, throw on overpowering earrings with an equally bold necklace, or wear something unflattering due to lack of a full-length view (even by standing on the toilet seat). And though the lighting was dim, the space confined, and the pressure mounting, it became all about the treasured mirror, which they divvied up as follows: Jamie, squatting, took to applying eyeliner from the corner right; above her and nearest to the outlet, Rachel used an iron on her hair in the corner left; and from the distance, Allison modeled shirts and made the others halt entirely every five minutes to let her sneak a glance. Complicating matters, Jamie’s makeup brushes kept rolling into the dampened sink, Allison kept tripping over everyone’s stuff, and Rachel’s iron upped the temperature in the room by at least a million degrees. Intermittently someone left something of necessity back in the room (which was as good as leaving it back in the city), someone wasn’t happy with the way her makeup/clothes/hair was coming out, and someone from the outside pounded relentlessly upon the door.

  They were dying to open the door, if only for a second, to let some cool air in. But that was a risk no one was willing to take: one moment of weakness could allow a hostile takeover. And so each worked in grave silence until Rachel’s stomach interjected with a loud growl.

  “You guys, I’m starving,” she said, clipping back a section of straightened hair.

  “Me too!” Allison and Jamie cried in unison. Come to think of it, Jamie hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning, assuming they’d have plenty of time to stop once they arrived here (only they didn’t).

  “Oh well,” Jamie dismissed, eager to finish her eye contour. “If we drink on empty stomachs, we’ll get drunk faster.”

  “We’ll throw up faster,” Allison countered, and Rachel nodded.

  “I can’t not eat, my stomach is growling so loud it’s embarrassing,” Rachel said. She paused in thought, then proposed, “What about the pretzels? You brought them in from the car, right?”

  Jamie considered this as she twisted open her mascara. “Yeah, but if we open the door someone is totally busting in.”

  “Not if we hold it really hard,” Rachel offered, with an air of desperation.

  Jamie tore her eyes away from the mirror for a moment, her mascara wand in midair. “Well, I’m not about to run out there in boxer shorts with only half my makeup on. But they’re in my red bag, so be my guest.”

  Before Rachel could protest—her hair was divided into a million different sections secured by assorted clips and scrunchies—Allison stepped up.

  “I’ll go,” she said. “I only need a minute to get ready, and I have to wait for the mirror anyway.”

  And so they opened the door just enough for Allison to squeeze herself through; then they slammed it behind her as she scurried across the wooden floor. In a matter of milliseconds she returned, clutching the prized Rold Gold Honey Wheat godsends. Tearing open the bag, which was disappointingly smaller than she’d remembered, Jamie grabbed a handful of pretzels and shoved them into her mouth. Though she was probably biased because of her hunger, they were the best pretzels she had ever tasted. Attempting not to think of the socialites currently dining at Jean Luc while she subsisted solely on convenience-store fare, she inhaled a few more handfuls. But she had no sooner resumed applying her blush than Allison hit them with a time bomb.

  “So I sort of told Brian he could shower in a few minutes.”

  Like nothing preceding it, this succeeded in summoning everyone’s undivided attention. “What?” Jamie and Rachel cried, confronting their selfless friend.

  “Well, what was I supposed to say? We’ve been in here almost half an hour, and he needs to shower.” It was an unfortunate though unspoken protocol that showering took priority to anything else.

  “Can’t he wait, I’ll be done in like two minutes,” Jamie lie
d, her motions quickening.

  “He said there’s a mirror in his room we can use, above his dresser,” she said, and as if on cue they were startled by an encroaching knock.

  “Ladies,” Brian called, the familiarity of his voice softening them. “If you let me in, I promise I’ll be out in five minutes. Starting...now!”

  Jamie sighed. “Fine.” Picking up all their stuff—now unpacked, it was almost impossible to carry—they reluctantly opened the door.

  “Thank you,” Brian said, coming in with nothing but a towel and watching in awe as they hauled out a small truckload of things. “Downstairs, second door on the right,” he directed.

  They decamped downstairs, a brigade of girls with partial makeup, nonsensically clipped hair, and sorority-logo boxer shorts. Frustrated, Jamie couldn’t help but scowl as they trudged past Mark’s room, for really, that’s where she’d wanted to get ready...

  In a house where people were packed like sardines four to six to a room, Mark had his own fully furnished master bedroom—complete with king-size bed, large-screen TV, walk-in closet (stocked with every brand of liquor imaginable), and one of the biggest bathrooms Jamie had seen anywhere short of the Ritz. It was pure paradise, a vision of sparkling white tile, wall-to-wall mirroring, and flattering fluorescent lighting. As if that weren’t enough to make a shareholder envious, there was not just one, but two adjacent sectioned-off toilets, a huge marble whirlpool, and a shower so massive you could fit like four people in it. Made solely of glass, it was entirely see-through and had already been dubbed “the sex shower.” But while guys would be drawn immediately to the shower, girls were in awe of the wall-to-wall mirrors. Girls put out for the wall-to-wall mirrors. Heck, in the absence of any game, that room alone made Mark the biggest pimp in Southampton.

  However, Mark, like a majority of guys, saw showering and getting ready as the only time of day he couldn’t be drinking or eating or hooking up or doing nothing. So it was a chore to be executed in record time, which gave Jamie the brilliant idea to ask Mark from the moment they laid eyes on his bathroom if they could use it that night to get ready.

  He couldn’t have cared less, but unfortunately he’d already promised that privilege to Ilana, who had inserted herself up his ass from the moment they’d walked through the door. Ilana and her friends Tara and Jocelyn (or was it Jocelyn and Tara?) had all done Mark’s house for the past two summers and thought themselves highly superior for it—and seemingly, highly superior regardless. Jamie was appalled, but decided it was in her best interest to pick her battles.

  Now parading past those already dressed and drinking, they finally arrived at Brian’s room. And knocked. And knocked harder. When no one answered, Jamie boldly pushed it open, revealing Rob with nothing but a towel around his waist and a joint in his hand. Rather than recede in embarrassment, though, he promptly about-faced and jokingly flashed what little was left to the imagination.

  Jamie didn’t know it then, but he was only the first of the many naked people they’d see on any given weekend.

  “Brian said we could use your mirror,” she stated.

  “Knock yourself out,” he volunteered, re-covering himself (and his surprisingly defined physique) with the towel.

  Jamie didn’t think it possible, but this mirror was smaller and more poorly lit than the one upstairs. Their efforts were further hindered by Rob, who, in a most surprising diversion, kept interrupting them.

  “Do you like this shirt?” he asked. And, flattered he trusted their judgment, they were happy to voice their consent. Until he repeated the procedure with about six other shirts. Then he came over and asked to “sneak a peek” in the mirror, which was technically his. But he considered a “peek” to mean running his hand though his hair, flicking it every which way, and continuing to do so for an inordinately long time. Did he not realize it wasn’t going anywhere? Jamie wondered. Then, just when they thought he was finally through, he turned to them and asked, “Anyone have any hair stuff?”

  “Uh, what kind of stuff?” Jamie replied, offering him her fortress of hair products and wondering whether he in fact used stuff on a daily basis or simply wanted to make the most of the situation.

  Faced with his choice of gels, mousses, and laminates, Rob examined each product, scientifically inhaled a teeny whiff, then tested it out on but a few strands of hair. The girls, all the while waiting their turn, sighed in frustration and made impatient suggestions to help him along.

  Shortly, in strolled Brian, in what now appeared to be the house uniform of a towel. Without any hesitation, the girls promptly charged back upstairs, banging their bags behind them. Predictably, the bathroom was already taken, but luckily only by some random guy using it to emit foul-smelling excrements, evident the instant he opened the door. “You might want to wait a minute,” he warned them, but they didn’t listen, as a minute was all it took to lose the room again.

  Holding their noses, they reentered the bathroom, now a complete sauna from Brian’s hardly abbreviated shower. Absorbing the steam, their roots began to recurl, the color melted down their faces, and they went from feeling ready to go out to ready to hit the shower themselves. Fortunately, the only thing Jamie needed to do was physically change her clothes; to her relief she was finally finished. Just as she was about to ask her friends if they were ready to escape the humidity, though, Allison turned to her.

  The lowest-maintenance of the bunch, Allison had applied some barely discernible makeup, run a brush through her naturally straight light brown hair, and remained quiet throughout the remainder of the ordeal.

  “Jamie?” Allison asked, her voice foreign with trepidation. “Um, I was thinking...”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Jamie assured her friend, who’d looked positively miserable since the onset of the evening. “Just forget he’s here. You’re doing great.” Peering back into the mirror, she scrunched her hair again.

  “Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow a shirt.”

  “Really?” she asked, whipping around in total shock. Allison looked just as she normally did, wearing a simple J. Crew tank top and jeans. Her basic style had always suited her fine.

  “Yeah, I don’t really like anything I brought,” she said, barely looking in Jamie’s direction. “And, um, since we’re here, do you think you can do my makeup?”

  This was enough to shock both Rachel and Jamie. In the entire time they’d known Allison, they’d only seen her wear makeup (well, visible makeup) for weddings, formals, and Halloween. And even though each minute in the sweaty bathroom felt like an hour, Jamie knew she had to do her friend this small favor.

  Rifling through her extensive luggage, Jamie produced a tight metallic Nicole Miller top and—to her surprise—Allison didn’t object. Then she did Allison’s makeup, instantly transforming her in the way you can only transform if you never wear makeup. Jamie had never seen her friend look better, but she knew that on the inside Allison had rarely felt worse.

  When they finally emerged from the bathroom, in full going-out attire and arms packed comically full of luggage, the girls clattered across the floor in heels and a potent cloud of perfume (an odd amalgamation of three separate scents).

  And that’s when they discovered the raging flip cup tournament in progress. Since people wanted to get as drunk as possible before going out, especially the guys—most girls got ready up until the moment they departed—a large game was organized every night from as early as nine till whenever everyone left for the clubs.

  As they entered the dining room, Rob entreated the girls—clearly out of politeness—to join in the game, and Allison shockingly said yes. Jamie spotted Allison’s ex Josh on the other side of the room, so it was easy for her to guess why, but Jamie would never have allowed a guy she’d dumped to have such a pronounced effect on her. Accepting the tattered T-shirt Mark produced from his mother of all closets, Allison quickly changed out of the gold top and took a seat next to the other girls ballsy enough to attempt a sloppy
drinking game (coincidentally, only the two who weren’t from New York).

  Less shockingly, Rachel abandoned Jamie to watch the game next to Dan the lawyer, whom Jamie found dull at best, trying to win him over with conversation. Left to her lonesome, Jamie retreated to the couch—far from the juvenile proceedings (and from the bleacher seats that were frequently splashed on).

  Though she was relieved she wouldn’t have to think about getting ready again until...tomorrow, her spirits were far from high. And now her friends had deserted her. As she watched the tournament drag on, Jamie feared it might never be over.

  Eager to pass some time, she pulled out her phone. “Hey!” she said the moment her co-worker answered. “Are you out east?”

  “Sorry, I can barely hear you,” shouted a voice amid loud commotion. “I’m at dinner at Savanna’s, but everyone’s going to Dune later. See you over there?”

  Jamie started to fume all over again. Over the past two weeks her inbox had been flooded with invites—Memorial Day weekend being that notorious occasion when nightclubs battled it out for supremacy with celebrity guests, newly renovated spaces, and world-renowned DJs. What a nightmare it’d been to choose! Especially for someone who regarded party selection as nothing short of an art form—one to be evaluated by PR backing, venue choice, and anticipated guest list. Still, as Jamie quickly learned, in a share house this decision is made for you. So even though Dune (new from the owners of Marquee nightclub) promised to be hosting one of the hotter parties, followed closely by Stereo with DJ AM, Mark was “running a list” at Pink Elephant that evening—where the entire house would thus migrate. “Can’t. I sort of have to go to Pink Elephant.”

  “What? Oh, well, I’m sure that’ll be good, too. Listen, I have to go—”