Four
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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 breakfasts 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?
“Of course, darling,” Martin said. “We can get the pâté. And Cassie also needs to sample that Beluga caviar and the Stilton—it goes so nicely with the Petrus. I wonder if they have those glorious yellow tomatoes.”
We arrived at the Barefoot Contessa, and I stared in awe at picture-perfect cupcakes draped in chocolate ganache, apple galettes framed in puffed pastry, and flaky chocolate croissants. Lily selected cheeses I had never heard of, along with caviars imported from Scandinavia, pâtés shipped daily from France, and tiny pear-shaped tomatoes. Martin stood up front by the cash register, flipping through Dan’s Papers and the Southampton Independent, two of the Hamptons’ weeklies.
After our items had been bagged, the cashier read the total: $334.09. I looked at the twelve items on the belt—all of which couldn’t really qualify as anything more than snacks (or maybe hors d’oeuvres if you wanted to get fancy about it)—positive that the amount had resulted from a major error in the store’s computer system. Martin reached for his wallet without so much as a blink. He produced a black American Express card and paid for the items. I’d never seen a black AmEx before, and I wondered where it fit in the hierarchy of plastic. Lily leaned in to nuzzle his ear while he signed the receipt.
Unless they expected me to starve, Martin was apparently paying for me too. I’d thought about taking out my wallet, but I knew my last $10 wouldn’t make a dent in the grocery tab. I just hoped Martin wasn’t expecting the same payback from me that he was getting from Lily.
On the way to the car, he put his hand around her tapered waist and then casually let it drop to fondle her rear end. “Darling! You need to behave!” she chastised him coyly, freeing herself from his grasp.
I felt so uncomfortable, like I’d just walked in on my parents having sex. I quickly walked toward the car and pretended to admire the landscaping of Main Street. It was like I was babysitting two horny fifteen-year-olds, a situation made all the worse by the fact that at least one of them was my grandfather’s age.
We got back in the car and traveled south on Mecox Lane away from town and toward the ocean. The houses grew more and more impressive—expansive rolling lawns spotted with rose gardens and tennis courts gave way to enormous residences with commanding white columns and elegant verandas. Most of them appeared vacant. It was still a week before Memorial Day, and the summer season hadn’t officially begun. Dozens of landscapers busied themselves in the yards, pruning lilac bushes, trimming hedges, and cleaning pools in preparation for the owner’s arrival.
“There’s a large Hispanic population here during the off months,” Martin said when he noticed me looking at the workers.
“Where do they put them all during the summer season?” Lily asked.
“Damned if I know.” Martin harrumphed. “As long as they’re not on my beach, I don’t care where they go.”
I looked out my window and lost myself in Walter Mitty–like daydreams, simultaneously trying to peer between colossal hedges to get a look at the homes that lay hidden behind them and to set aside my embarrassment at having been privy to such an appalling comment on Martin’s part. I was liking these people less and less with every passing minute and beginning to dread what the rest of the trip would bring. What on earth had I gotten myself into? Still, I was determined to see it through and at least try to secure a bartending job since I’d come all this way. It was only twenty-four hours, and if the Saracen opportunity worked out, I’d just get my own place out here for the summer and avoid these two cretins.
A few minutes later we turned onto a road marked PRIVATE. We drove down a long winding, wooded path, slowing down just as I noticed a sign that read PRITCHARD SERVICE.
“What’s ‘Pritchard Service’?” I asked.
Lily laughed.
“It’s the service entrance,” Martin said. “The driveway used by my cook, maids, and groundskeepers. And that cottage you see is where my three main workers live year-round, so they can take care of the property and also prepare the house at a moment’s notice if I decide to come out for a weekend.”
We drove a few yards farther and pulled up to immense wrought-iron gates. Martin punched a code into some sort of security device, and we were granted access to his long driveway. My breath caught as we approached the house; I felt like we’d driven into the first panel of Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights.” Vibrantly colored flowers complemented the green rambling hills, and ponds, fountains, and gardens adorned the property. In addition to the sprawling Manor House on the south side of the estate and the small service cottage on the north side, a deluxe pool house and horse stables loomed in the distance. Martin pulled the Bentley into an eight-car garage, sandwiching it between a fire-engine-red Porsche 911 Carrera and a midnight blue Tahoe. Despite the bitter taste in my mouth from Martin and Lily’s earlier behavior, I had to admit that all of it took my breath away. After all, I’d grown up in a tiny three-bedroom ranch with fifty square feet of dry yellowed grass for a backyard.
Martin spanked Lily playfully on her butt as she got out of the car.
“Martin, not in front of Cassie!” she squealed.
I forced a smile and stepped out into the driveway. The salty sea air alerted me that the ocean was nearby. And whereas the sky had been gray and overcast for much of the drive, the sun was now shining brightly.
“It’s splendid outside!” Martin exclaimed. “The sun finally looks like it’s here to stay. Let’s drop off our bags and head to the club, shall we?”
“Sound good,” I said, although the last thing I felt like doing was getting back inside the cigarette smoke–filled car. I watched as several of Martin’s servants scurried out of the mammoth pillared house to collect our bags and deposit them inside.
Martin had been a member of the Southampton Country Club for over thirty years. The club was incredibly exclusive—fewer than fifty members, he informed me—and I suddenly wished I’d chosen something different to wear. Lily looked pristine in her tennis whites; meanwhile, I’d discovered a stain on my faded pale blue top.
By the time we arrived, my appetite had returned full force, especially after our tempting sojourn through the Barefoot Contessa. As we passed the club’s English gardens overrun by a rainbow of climbing roses and poppies, all I could think about was eating. We entered the dining room to find every imaginable variety of food laid out in a gourmet buffet: omelets made to order, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, salads, pasta, vegetables, filet mignon, beef brisket, and desserts. Giant ice sculptures of swans and mermaids graced the tables, and the cheese platter lined with grapes and figs looked like a still life by Velasquez. There was an entire ten-foot table devoted solely to bread—baguettes, croissants, brioches, chocolate bread, rhubarb bread, seven-grain bread—it was an Atkins follower’s worst nightmare. There was a raw bar piled high with lobster, clams, oysters, shrimp, and caviar, and another station housed two chefs who would create virtually any salad you could envision, out of the thousands of fresh ingredients spread out in front of them. I spent a full twenty minutes deliberating, picking and choosing, and circling around until I finally struggled back to our table, my arms balancing heaping plates of salmon, New York strip steak, and potatoes au gratin—as well as glasses of orange juice, water, and red wine.
My few weeks at Finton’s had already taught me how to carry loads of plates and glasses at a time, so when a waitress asked, “Do you need some help with that, miss?” in a lilting Irish accent, I smiled at her in a manner I hoped communicated that I too was a veteran of the service industry and said, “No, thanks, I think I’ve got it.”
As I tried to set everything down on the table, my Nutella tartine, a handful of champagne grapes, and a tiny ramekin of cocktail sauce slopped off the plate and onto the floor, almost landing in Lily’s lap.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, bending down immediately to pick up the fallen items and mop up the mess with my napkin.
“Cassie, don’t trouble yourself.” Martin laughed, expelling cigarette smoke. His laughter sounded more like a smoker’s cough. “They have staff here for that sort of thing. Besides, you can go up again and get more food, you know.”
“Though it looks like you cleared everything out the first time,” Lily sniffed, eyeing my heaping plate of selections. I looked at hers: it held exactly five lettuce leaves and two pieces of grilled shrimp.
“I skipped breakfast this morning,” I said apologetically. But a small part of me was actually beginning to feel sorry for Lily. It was clear that she not only denied herself an attractive, age-appropriate boyfriend, but the pleasures of food as well.
“Martin, I see you’re not drinking your usual,” I commented, eager to take the attention off of me.
“Ketel and tonic is my summer drink—I just switched from salty dogs, because the grapefruit was too acidic. Now that the weather’s warming up, I’m ready to abandon manhattans for the next few months,” he explained, snapping his fingers for the waiter’s attention, so that he could order another one before his current drink ran out. Martin was the type of person who hated to have an empty glass in front of him.
We were sitting at an ocean-side table on the deck of the Victorian mansion that housed the club. Silverware tinkled, ice rattled in glasses, and quiet conversation ebbed and flowed with the tide. All of the other members were older WASPy types like Martin, dressed in white golf shirts or dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone, sans ties. A handful of them were sporting navy-blue blazers with their family crests engraved on the shiny brass buttons. I noted that there was a disproportionately high number of much older men with young, attractive women on their arms.
As I observed the boats tossing in the waves and the sloping sand dunes, I relaxed a little and began to enjoy the delectable spread in front of me. My worries receded amid the sunshine and ocean air, as I came to my pièce de résistance—chocolate soufflé.
The warm chocolate tasted like sweet dark satin melting on my tongue. “You guys have to try this chocolate soufflé, it’s the best dessert I’ve ever tasted,” I said, eagerly dipping in for a second bite. I’d read somewhere that chocolate makes your brain release the same endorphins your body produces during an orgasm—not too far off from what I was experiencing at that very moment.
“I feel like I’ll get fat if I even let myself smell that,” Lily huffed. She then fixed me with an irritated look. “Cassie, you have chocolate on your teeth.”
Just then Martin bellowed, “Well, hello, James!”
I turned around expecting to see another gray-haired, gray-skinned, middle-aged playboy out to lunch with his twenty-year-old girlfriend. Instead, my jaw almost hit the deck when I saw the stunningly gorgeous young man standing in front of me. He had wind-tossed, light brown hair that fell charmingly over his forehead, and his cheeks and nose were slightly rosy in a way that suggested he’d spent the morning outdoors. I guessed that he stood at least six two—perfect for my five feet eight—and my heart jumped as I took in the copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise and the New York Times tucked under his tanned, toned arm. I hurriedly wiped my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth before attempting a smile.
“Martin! How are you?” James asked.
“How could I be anything but wonderful on such a glorious day?” Martin said as his eyes swept our panoramic ocean view.
“I know. Dad and I were fishing all morning,” James said.
“How is your father?” Martin asked.
“He’s doing great,” James said. “Looking forward to beating you at golf on Sunday, from what I hear.”
Martin laughed raucously while grasping his protruding midsection. “Ladies, this young man’s father, James Edmonton the Second, is one of my best clients and also one of the most skilled golfers I know. The Edmontons are tremendously fond of ridiculing my very high handicap.”
“Hi, I’m James,” he said, suddenly turning to me with a radiant smile. I snapped to attention and did my best to offer him an equally fetching gaze, while desperately wishing I had reapplied lip gloss.
“Where are my manners?” Martin tsked. “Cassie, allow me to present James Richard Edmonton the Third, graduate of Yale University, vice president at Goldman Sachs, and master boatman and golfer. James, this is Cassie. She’s a bartender at Dan Finton’s place downtown. And you already know Lily.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, discreetly wiping my clammy hand on my pants before shaking his. Why the hell did Martin have to introduce me as a bartender? “What year did you graduate from Yale?”
“Nineteen ninety-eight,” he replied.
“Do you know Matt Riordan?” I asked. “He’s from my hometown and graduated that year.” I was barely even aware of the words as they came out, just watching his mouth as he responded.
“Sure, I know Riordan. A good friend of mine actually dated his younger sister. She went to Columbia, I think.”
“Yeah, Amanda!” I said. “I know her pretty well. She graduated this year with me.”
“So you went to Columbia, huh?” he asked. “We killed you guys at the Yale Bowl.”
“Well, we have a young football team—all eleven starters are coming back next year, and if I remember correctly, none of Yale’s are. So I think you’re going to have some competition over the next couple of seasons.” I smiled, amazed that the one article I’d ever read about the Columbia football team had remained tucked away somewhere in my brain.
“Pretty impressive,” he said, nodding. “So what days do you work at Finton’s? That’s a great bar.”
“Well, hopefully I’m going to be working out here this summer on the weekends, and I’ll keep some shifts at Finton’s during the week. I’ll probably be working Tuesday during the day and Wednesday and Thursday nights,” I replied, conscious of Lily’s disdainful eyes on me and hoping I didn’t sound as eager as I felt.
“Cool. Well, maybe I’ll see you there sometime.” He turned back to Martin. “I’ll let you guys get back to lunch. It was nice to see you again, Lily. And Cassie, it was great meeting you.”
I watched him vanish into the country club where he was immediately camouflaged by a sea of white Polo shirts and khakis, and I was overcome with the delicious sense of giddiness that comes from meeting someone you’re instantly attracted to. I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca when she sees Humphrey Bogart and the world momentarily stops turning. My mind momentarily flashed to my screenplay. Perhaps I had a new model for my Prince Charming.
“Is James dating anyone?” Lily asked, reading my mind. “He’s so handsome.” Handsome doesn’t begin to describe it, I thought.
“I don’t really know,” Martin mused. “I heard he ran around with Amanda Hearst quite a bit last summer.”
I knew from Gotham Magazine that Amanda Hearst was a socialite, and my heart sunk at the thought of all the wafer-thin, platinum blond, unbelievably rich, “aspiring actresses, models, and recording artists” that James must know and who I could never in a million years compete with. A guy like that—who was I kidding? He obviously had women—heiresses, even—lined up around the block. My brief visions of striking up a summer romance floated away on the same salty breeze that kept the yachts tossing on their moorings only a few hundred yards away.
I quickly changed the subject and turned toward Lily, just as a waiter was bringing her another glass of wine. She had easily consumed twice the amount of alcohol that I had since we’d arrived at the club, and she was half my size. Her eyelids were noticeably heavier and her regal posture had softened. I felt like I might finally be able to have a genuine conversation with her—if there was one thing bartending had taught me, it was that alcohol was a truth serum. “So, Lily, what do you do?”
“Lily is a personal trainer,” Martin answered for her. “She just opened her own boutique fitness studio on the Upper East Side.”
“It’s really picking up,” she boasted. “I have twice as many clients now than I did last month. Most of them are women who are trying to shape up their rear end—it’s the first thing to go on women over twenty-five. It starts to sag.”
“I don’t notice that problem on you, darling,” Martin said as he took a big gulp of his Ketel and tonic. “You just turned twenty-seven and your ass looks better than ever.”
“Well, that’s because I work on it practically every day,” Lily said, smiling at him and tossing her glossy hair.
“I like to go to work on your ass every day too,” Martin growled, leaning in toward her. I cringed. This time even Lily blushed.
“Cassie, darling, I apologize,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “Martin is exceptionally frisky today.”
“Oh, now, that’s not true, darling. I’m always like this when I’m around you. I’m sure Cassie doesn’t mind, do you, Cassie?”
“Uh . . . no,” I stammered.
“Of course you don’t,” Martin said. “You’re a bartender. I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”
This was a new one. It hadn’t occurred to me that my profession might give people license to do or say things they wouldn’t do or say in other company. It was possible, I realized, that Martin and Lily didn’t carry on like this around everyone and that their behavior was a function of how they perceived me. I was a bartender—I came from a world of decadence and debauchery. I was also working class and thus not in a position to have my judgments of them matter.
Martin turned toward the ocean, gazing over my head at the clusters of people on the beach. Flocks of mothers in Juicy sweat suits sheltered by the official blue-and-white beach umbrellas of the country club were keeping vigilant watch over children in Vilebrequin swimwear. “Speaking of asses,” he went on, “that girl’s got an ass on her that’s going to break hearts.”
I followed his gaze down to where a four-year-old girl was playing in the sand with brightly colored shovels and buckets. Her blond curls were captured in two pigtails with matching pink bows, and she wore a tiny bikini covered in little yellow ducks. She was bent over filling pails with water for her sandcastle.
“You mean that little girl?” I asked incredulously. “She’s only about four years old!”
“I can tell a good ass when I see one.” He chuckled. “I’ve noticed from my vantage point at Finton’s that you have a nice one yourself.”
“Marty!” Lily said, feigning astonishment. “Behave yourself, darling.”
I was now feeling downright disgusted. Martin’s behavior toward Lily was one thing—many older men coveted the bodies of younger women. It might not have been pleasant to think about what Lily and Martin did behind closed doors, but they were both consenting adults. But a four-year-old girl? Was he a child molester? At the very least he was a pervert, which made me even less thrilled at the revelation that he’d been secretly eyeing me. At Finton’s there was always a bar between us, but in this sort of social setting I felt uncomfortable and exposed. I looked at Lily, who was so drunk at this point that I wondered if Martin’s comment had really registered. She was smart, I reflected. If she had to deal with Martin’s company in exchange for a lavish lifestyle, she might as well spend her time with him drunk and clueless.
I was weak with relief when Martin asked for the check and we prepared to leave. When the waitress brought the bill, I started leafing through my credit cards to find the only one that wasn’t maxed out. I hoped they took Discover. Even though I had no money, I wanted to pay for my own lunch. I didn’t want anything else from Martin.
“Cassie, what are you doing, dear?” Martin asked.
“I just wanted to give you some money toward my lunch . . .” I began.
“Darling, here at the club, no cash is exchanged. Every member has a standing account, so each time I eat here, I just sign for it and then pay one bill at the end of the year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Well, thank you very much,” I said. Lily smiled indulgently as I quickly stuffed my wallet back into my bag.
The three of us piled into the Bentley again, and before Martin had even started the car, he lit a cigarette. Lily did the same, and clouds of smoke formed circles around my head. I wondered how Martin could even see out the windows of the car. The two of them smoked so much that I was surprised everything around them wasn’t fogged by a sticky, grayish glaze of tar and nicotine.
“Shall we head over to Saracen?” Martin asked. “Joseph said I should bring you by any time after four.”
“Sure. That’d be great.” I was starting to question whether I could stomach spending my summer working out here. What if everyone was like Martin and Lily? Then again, James Edmonton had seemed like a great guy in addition to being unbelievably attractive. I’d just have to make sure I found a share house with normal people my own age. Besides, I was determined to get out of debt—and from everything I kept hearing—and from everything I’d already witnessed—money flowed freely in the Hamptons. “Do you really think I could get the job?”
“I don’t see why not. I spoke at length with Joseph about you. He was the one that suggested you come in for an interview.”
Give us a call when you’re done and we’ll come pick you up,” Martin called as I climbed out of the Bentley. It was a quarter to five when we arrived at Saracen, and the temperature had already dropped another five degrees. “Lily needs a few items from Henry Lehr in East Hampton, so we’ll be nearby. Call my cell.”
Martin had explained earlier that Saracen was one of his favorite watering holes in the Hamptons. It was an upscale Italian restaurant that let its hair down after the dinner crowd faded and transformed to a disco of sorts for the older Hamptons set who still liked to swing, but wanted to avoid the official velvet-rope-madness of the club scene. Typical of the Hamptons, it was an old estate house on Georgica Pond converted to a restaurant. It had whitewashed shingles and a grand doorway that in its heyday could have been the reception hall for a debutante ball.
“Hello?” I called as I entered the empty restaurant. Tables and chairs were stacked haphazardly in the entranceway, and the place looked nowhere near ready for the upcoming Memorial Day weekend.
“What do you want?” an irritated voice shouted from somewhere in the back.
“Hi . . . I’m Cassie Ellis . . . Martin Pritchard recommended that I meet Joseph about a possible bartending job and—”
“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” the voice yelled.
Moments later a squat, portly guy of about thirty-five strolled out of what I assumed was the kitchen. His black hair was slick-backed like the Fonz, and he was wearing a turquoise silk shirt tucked into black Cavariccis and a thick black leather belt with a shiny silver buckle. He reeked of Drakkar Noir, and he was the kind of guy who gave Long Island a bad rap. I was sure he had a can of Binaca in his back pocket.
“Hi,” I said, “Are you Joseph?”
“No, I’m Tony, Joey’s better-looking younger brother,” he chortled. “Joey couldn’t make it today because he’s stuck at our other restaurant in Brooklyn.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, Martin Pritchard said I should stop by because I’m looking for a bartending job. I brought along my résumé and . . .”
“I wish I could help you out, sweetheart,” he said, his eyes lingering on my breasts. “We definitely owe Martin a favor or two, but we’re overstaffed as it is. Joey and I usually have our staff all set by late February. It’s going to be tough to find a job this late in the game.”
“Oh. I had no idea,” I said hollowly. “Thanks.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Good luck, and tell Martin we’re sorry we couldn’t come through.”
Trying to shrug off my disappointment, I walked outside and hovered in the empty parking lot, watching the evening traffic on Montauk Highway. I took out my cell phone and dialed Martin’s number, but the call wasn’t going through. I looked down at my phone and saw the ominous message, “No Service,” blinking on the tiny charcoal screen.
“Cell service in the Hamptons sucks,” Alexis had warned. I took a deep breath and tried the call again. No luck.
I kept on trying, but the call wouldn’t connect. As I shifted from one foot to the other, I looked across the road and saw a sign for a place called Spark about a hundred yards down the street. Rather than bother Tony again, I decided to go there, sit down, regroup, use their phone, and maybe have a drink.
The neon lights emblazoning the bar’s sign were incongruous with its weatherbeaten paint-chipped exterior. It looked like a large dingy shore house. But despite its tacky facade, the inside was bright and tasteful. The main room had been converted from an old barn, so the ceilings were lofted and gaping windows had been installed on all of the walls. In contrast with the dusty emptiness of Saracen, there were at least a dozen people running around frantically trying to get the place ready for the holiday weekend that would kick off the summer season.
“Can I help you?” a man behind the bar asked. He wore a grungy red bandanna knotted around his sweating head and an oversized T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. On his arms were thick Pony sweatbands. His bloodshot eyes were deeply set, highlighted by his pasty skin. He held nine wineglasses in one hand and four liquor bottles in the other as he swiftly stocked the desolate bar.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I ventured. “I just came out from the city for the day, and I was wondering if you guys were hiring.”
“Cocktail waitress?” he said, as he blatantly checked out my body. I suddenly wished I hadn’t eaten that chocolate soufflé. But on some level, it was a flattering question. Cocktail waitresses in Manhattan and the Hamptons were usually aspiring models, dancers, and actresses—incredibly tall, thin, and attractive. It was a compliment to be mistaken for one.
“No—bartender.”
“Our bar staff is full,” he said. “You want a drink?”
I accepted and sat on a bar stool sipping a Bud Light and watching him prepare the bar.
“Where’d you go to school?” I asked, after we’d introduced ourselves.
“Deer Park High School,” he replied.
“Is that in Long Island?” I asked.
“Yup. How about you?” he asked.
“I grew up in Albany and went to high school up there, and then moved to the city and went to Columbia.”
“That’s cool. I went to Southampton College for a year, but all I did was smoke pot, so my parents were like ‘I’m not paying thousands of dollars for you to get stoned all day,’ so I just dropped out. I started bartending at Blue Collar Bar when I was nineteen. I’ve worked at just about every single bar in the Hamptons,” he explained as he expertly layered bottles of triple sec in a storage cabinet. “It’s crazy out here—you start work at one place, then you pick up some shifts somewhere else, and the next thing you know, you’re all over the place. If you meet the right people, you can start working at the nicer clubs where people really drop money. Last summer I worked at NV on Thursday, Jet East on Friday and Saturdays, Sunset Beach on Sundays. It was insane.”
“Do you have another job besides bartending?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Like a day job or something,” I said, regretting the question. I was learning that even in a city like New York, where a lot of the bartenders were doing other things like acting or writing, there were still a lot of career bartenders like Billy. If the money was good, it was easy to get sucked in.
“Nope, I make enough money bartending out here in the summers to take the winters off. I usually head down to Miami, and if I run out of cash I can always bartend in South Beach. I’ve been thinking about going to Hawaii this coming fall after the season’s over. I hear they got a bartender’s union down there, where you get health insurance and something like twenty bucks an hour plus you make sick tips.”
“God, I wish they had that here. I could really use it,” I said, thinking that I could probably finish my screenplay in one winter in Hawaii.
“Are you a good bartender?” he asked suddenly.
“Yeah,” I said with bravado I wasn’t sure I deserved to use. I guessed I was a good bartender. I seemed to be holding my own at Finton’s. But I didn’t really know.
“Can you handle volume? Because this is gonna be slammed this summer. I’m talking twenty deep at the bar.”
“I can handle anything,” I said, more firmly than I felt.
“Hold on a sec.” He climbed over the bar and vanished out the front door.
Moments later he returned with a six-foot-five man in a flashy double-breasted white suit.
“This is Teddy,” Jake said. “He’s one of the promoters here, and he’s in charge of hiring.”
Promoters, like publicists, were minor celebrities who jockeyed for fame and publicity and were yet another notch to contend with in the hierarchy of a bar or club. At smaller bars and restaurants like Finton’s, the general manager ran the show with occasional help or input from the owner. At big clubs in the Hamptons, owners hired a team of promoters to make their place “the” spot for that summer. Often promoters have Rolodexes containing numbers of celebrities and other beautiful people they can always count on to decorate their club, and get mentions in Page Six, DailyCandy, and on Access Hollywood. Promoters have a lot of power, and are often put in charge of a lot of operational duties like the hiring and firing of the bar staff.
“Hey. I’m Cassie,” I said, straightening up on my bar stool.
“So I hear you’re fast,” he said.
“What?” I asked, alarmed.
“Jake said you’re a fast bartender . . . you can handle heavy volume,” he said. “Because this is going to be the spot out here this summer, and we need bartenders who can really bang it out. I’m talking tons of celebrities—everyone from Donald Trump to P. Diddy, and we already have parties booked for thousand of people. You need to make them want to stay and make them want to pay.”
“Of course,” I said, wondering exactly what he meant by “heavy volume.”
“What’s your highest ring?” he asked. A “ring” is bartender jargon for sales.
“Ah, well, um . . .” I stammered, trying to think of a number. I had no idea how much I rang at Finton’s, because we did what’s called a “blind drop.” Laurel always did our register reports the day after we worked, so we never saw how much money exchanged hands or went into our register. I took a stab in the dark. “Probably about eight thousand?”
“Wow,” he said, visibly impressed. “We’ll definitely try you out.”
“Great!” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding and breaking into a smile.
“You talk a lot of shit, sweetie,” he said. “I like that. Be here nine-thirty on Friday night.”
I was both thrilled and relieved. This bizarre day and all the awkwardness with Martin and Lily had very nearly amounted to nothing. Now I suddenly had a job at what promised to be the hottest spot in the Hamptons. I shook Teddy’s hand and thanked both him and Jake profusely. I could hardly wait to tell Alexis.
As I walked out the door, Teddy called after me, “And remember—dress sexy, but not slutty. This is a classy place, but they still want to see some skin.”
Outside, I pulled out my cell phone to check the time: 7:18. I’d forgotten to ask Jake if I could use the phone, and I felt funny going back inside. Teddy’s parting comment had left me with a vague sense of sleaziness that I tried hard to let roll off my back. Clearly I was going to have to let go of a lot of my more feminist notions if I wanted to be successful in this industry. I wasn’t sure whose yardstick of success I was measuring myself against these days—certainly not my mother’s! I looked at my cell: still no signal. But a cab idled in the parking lot.
“How much to Southampton?” I asked the driver.
“Just you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Twenty.”
“I only have ten,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.
“All right, get in. It’s been a really slow night anyway. Where you going?”
“The Pritchard estate on Mecox Lane.”
I climbed in the car, and we careened west on Montauk Highway. Twenty minutes later I saw the familiar PRIVATE sign emerge from the wall of impeccably manicured hedges. The driver let me off right in front of Martin’s security apparatus. I wondered if someone inside was watching me on a television screen.
“Here’s my card,” the cabdriver said as I slid across the cracked black leather seat, opened the door, and slung my backpack over my tired right shoulder. “Call me if you ever need a ride.”
“Thanks,” I said, handing him the battered $10 bill and stowing the card safely in my wallet.
By now it was almost eight o’clock and the sun had set, dipping below the weeping willow trees on the horizon and leaving an unnatural purple glow in its wake. I pulled on my jean jacket and fastened the buttons as a cool breeze wafted off the water and across the grounds of Martin’s estate. I wasn’t sure how I should deal with the security system. After studying the device more closely, I realized there was a tiny red call button. I pushed it.
“Yes? Who is it?” A woman’s voice crackled like a rifle shot out of the speaker box. I jumped, startled. From her thick Spanish accent, I assumed it was one of the maids.
“Hi, it’s Cassie, Martin’s friend. I’m outside,” I said, my voice echoing throughout the empty grounds. A buzzing sound followed and the gates slowly opened. Passing by the servants’ cottage, I tried to get my bearings as sensor lights eerily illuminated my path. I broke into a run, sprinting the quarter mile to the Manor House.
I knocked on the massive door, but there was no answer. I had expected at least the maid to be waiting for me, but the house appeared vacant. With trepidation, I pushed open the door and walked inside.
“Cassie, dear?” Martin’s voice echoed somewhere off to my left.
I relaxed. “Hi, Martin,” I called. “I’m back.”
“We’d all but given up on you. Come join us. We’re in the sitting room.”
I followed his voice down the hall to find him and Lily sitting next to another couple on a gold-upholstered couch in a candlelit room. They were murmuring softly, and I noticed two open bottles of red wine and half-filled, lipstick-smudged glasses spread out before them, along with a half-empty bottle of Ketel One, more used glasses, plates with remnants of food, and four ashtrays overflowing with still-smoking cigarette butts and cigars. In his red velvet bathrobe, Martin gave the appearance of a stubbier Hugh Hefner. Lily wore a lacy, very short white negligee. I stopped in the doorway.
“Hello, Cassie, darling,” Lily said with a graceful tilt of her head. “Come meet Denise and Bill.”
“Hi,” I said cautiously, moving slowly toward them, not wanting to seem rude. Denise was a striking Asian woman no older than thirty. Dressed in a black bustier and a Russian sable coat, seductively sucking on her long cigarette, she looked like one of the women you saw advertised as escorts in the back of the Village Voice. Bill, on the other hand, was a mirror image of Martin—short and plump, with an expensive robe and a hand that groped at Denise’s inner thigh.
They all sat there smiling mutely at me. What the hell was going on here? My mind raced, and I felt a surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline hit my nervous system, urging me to turn around and bolt. Martin in his bathrobe, Lily in lingerie, both of them sitting there with another scantily dressed couple. This can’t be what it looks like, I thought.
“Well,” I fumbled, “I guess I should start getting my things together if I’m going to make the nine o’clock train.” There was no way I’d feel comfortable staying there overnight.
“You can’t just scurry away without telling us how it went at Saracen,” Martin slurred, his eyes half-mast. As a bartender, I’d already become highly sensitive to the nuances of drunken behavior, but any idiot could tell that Martin was wasted out of his skull. My eyes fell to rest on several prescription pill bottles spilling their contents onto the glass table, jumbled in between the liquor bottles and cigarettes. “Sit down and have a glass of wine,” he urged.
Ever since she’d put the book The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker in my Easter basket one year, my mom had instilled in me the importance of following my instincts—which I’d now been ignoring long enough. These people were certifiable. I needed to get out of this house, get on the train, and get back to my safe little converted two-bedroom where my worries about bills and Alexis’s dirty dishes now seemed comfortably benign. But as soon as I turned to go, Martin blocked my path. He placed a wrinkled paw on my shoulder. “Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable and come and join us?”
My words tumbled out, as I flinched and pulled away. “My roommate actually just called, and she’s really upset about . . . I have to get on the nine o’clock train. My cab’s still waiting outside.”
I backed out of the room and quickly started making my way down the hallway and toward the front door. “I got a job at that new club, Spark, so that’s actually great,” I called in their general direction without looking back. “Thanks again!”
I clicked the door shut over their protests, and, fearful that Martin might actually follow me and try to entice me to stay, I hurried down the long, spooky driveway. Crickets and tree frogs croaked a dirge in the dark. Once I’d arrived at the street, I sat down on my backpack, pulled the cabdriver’s number out of my wallet, and opened my cell phone. For the first time since I’d arrived in the Hamptons, I was getting a clear signal.