How the Other Half Hamptons

by Jasmin Rosemberg

  Still, harder than remembering everyone’s names was gauging everyone’s sincerity, which can only really be revealed with time...though alcohol can certainly speed things along. And so, deciding only her immediate friends could be trusted, Rachel assumed each smile a front until proven otherwise.

  All warfare is based on deception. (The Art of War, Section 1.18)

  “It is so nice to meet you!” “I love your shirt!” “You live in Murray Hill? Me too!”

  Even those who originally looked Rachel up and down now attempted to be outgoing—or tried their hardest to fake it. It was sort of like the first day of classes when you didn’t yet know whose notes you’d need to copy. (Or, in this case, who was from your town, who lived in your building, who worked at that company you were dying to score an interview with, or who was BFF with your ex-boyfriend.) The only exception was the two girls from the Midwest—squeaky little Jill and tall muscular Robin—who were genuinely friendly, and consequently sure to get eaten alive.

  “You’re from New York, right?” Robin asked her, reaching out and touching her arm.

  “Yes,” Rachel answered. “How did you know?”

  “Everyone here’s from New York. Also, I could tell from your accent.”

  Rachel smiled, finding it funny that this Midwesterner thought she was the one with an accent. “Where are you from?”

  “Minnesota,” the two girls replied together.

  “So how’d you end up doing this house?” Rachel asked, as inoffensively as she could.

  “A girl I work with forwarded me the e-mail,” Jill said. “We just moved here, and we thought it would be a good way to meet some people. Fortunately everyone seems so nice.”

  “So nice,” Rachel repeated, but quickly fled when she saw a brunette approaching Dan.

  It was unfortunate, though merely how the game was played: from the moment you walked through the door, all bets were off, all whistles blown, and the first twenty-four hours were by far the most crucial.

  And as Rachel had learned through sorority life, Don’t think she won’t do it. Don’t think the girl with the pleasant demeanor and the shy smile wouldn’t think twice about moving in on your turf—or rather, your crush. So while Rachel hadn’t taken her eyes off Dan, not even for a moment, she suspected others hadn’t as well. Still, she was waiting for a prime opportunity to advance, one when he wasn’t so fully surrounded; her first attempt had been prematurely intercepted.

  “This is such a great house!” she’d exclaimed, then looked to him for approval. When he nodded, she’d added, “What’s your name?”

  Only no sooner had he answered “Dan” than his friends had come over and sat between them on the couch.

  The two-second exchange served to put her on the map, but her words had been bland and brief, and he really hadn’t gotten a sense of her at all. And she wished more than anything that Aaron would leave her alone. Once his false intentions and disgraceful phone etiquette had been revealed, Rachel no longer considered him a strategic use of her time.

  “So how come you didn’t text me back?” Aaron asked, inching away from his friend Steve and closer to her, giving others the impression that there might be something between them.

  Instinctively, Rachel took a step back, yet found herself momentarily distracted by his face. Even with his glasses on, he was the perfect mix of intellectual-meets-boy-next-door. So much so, Rachel had to remind herself of the words he’d texted her obscenely late the other night: “Hey it’s Aaron from DIP. What’s going on?”

  In Rachel’s opinion, a text (an appropriate one, at that!) was a lame excuse for a phone call...it ranked even lower than an e-mail, because you had to take the time to type out each silly little letter. And maybe she would have otherwise given him the benefit of the doubt, had he not already had such a significant strike against him. Like the rest of the world, he was clearly only interested in her because of her sister.

  “I never got a text from you,” she claimed. Which was pretty much the biggest lie in technology history. Then she said, “Excuse me,” and promptly slipped away.

  There was no need for Rachel to expend any energy on guys interested in her only because she was the next best thing to Dana. Or even worse, guys who were trying to snag an invite to Dana’s wedding. Especially when there were tons of other guys there, ones whose interests were a lot less superficial (perhaps they were merely trying to get ass). Taking another look at Dan on the far end of the couch, Rachel decided it was time to make her move—even if it meant intruding on a male congregation.

  The control of a large force is the same principle as the control of a few men: it is merely a question of dividing up their numbers. (The Art of War, Section 5.1)

  Zeroing in on her target, Rachel determinedly approached, then balanced herself uncomfortably on the couch’s bony arm.

  “So, I don’t remember seeing any of you at the meet and greet the other night,” she said to the group, though she concentrated her gaze on Dan. She then decided that Were any of you at the meet and greet might have been the slightly less hungry approach, but it was too late.

  “No, I had to work,” he said. His light eyes wandered the room as he spoke, and Rachel guessed he was reluctant to commit to a girl so early in the game. Everyone knew first nights were critical in dictating romance patterns for the rest of the summer.

  But Rachel wasn’t dismayed.

  When he keeps aloof...he is anxious for the other side to advance. (The Art of War, Section 9.19)

  “So what do you do?” she asked, lunging forward on the narrow arm and accidentally toppling over a bit before making a quick recovery.

  “I’m a lawyer,” he stated, with an air of pride. Rachel immediately picked up on it.

  Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. (The Art of War, Section 1.22)

  “Oh wow. A lawyer? What kind?”

  “Corporate.” Still no love.

  “Which firm do you work at?” she tried again, pleased she had remembered to call it a firm and not a company.

  “Willkie?” he replied, mentioning one of the more prestigious law firms in the city as if it were a question, clearly presuming a girl like her couldn’t possibly be familiar with such an exclusive field. Ha.

  Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected. (The Art of War, Section 1.24)

  “Oh, so you work in the Midtown office?” she asked, rather nonchalantly. Thanks to her widespread dating, Rachel had yet to meet a guy whose field she was unfamiliar with. “Because my friend is a summer associate in that building. Matt Sherman?” In truth, she only minimally knew Matt, having once gone for drinks with him at the W months earlier, but really that wasn’t the point.

  “Of course,” he said, looking up from the television screen and growing noticeably more interested. “I went to NYU Law with him, but he’s a Two-L.”

  “Really?” Rachel exclaimed, even though she’d totally known that’s where Matt had gone.

  “What’d you say your name was?” he asked, making real eye contact with her for the first time.

  “Rachel,” she repeated. And that’s how the game was played.

  And how it continued, for a good hour. But after each introduction had been made, each six-degrees-of-separation connection established, and Rob had again made everyone aware that he’d been on The Apprentice, silence once again overtook the awkward assemblage. And no one knew what to do next.

  They looked for assistance to the house manager, who was pretty much the only direct connection among everyone. Yet Mark was running around addressing the urgent dilemmas that, ironically enough, all stemmed from the girls in the house. (From “the air-conditioning is too high” to “someone else’s stuff is on my bed” to “there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom” to, most disturbingly, “everything smells like mildew.”)

  This left anything else under the jurisdiction of Craig, a husky guy whose bark was far worse than his bite, and who bore the title of assistant hous
e manager. Upon first meeting Craig, Rachel found two things immediately apparent: (a) Craig took his job way too seriously, and (b) assistant house manager was code for “resident nagger.”

  “I need your money” were the first words out of his mouth. “Anyone with an extra car needs to park at the train station” were the next. Clearly, Mark had hired Craig to be the bad guy. And a bad guy was certainly necessary, since share houses were technically illegal per the outmoded “brothel laws” of New York State—only a certain number of unrelated people could legally live under one roof. Therefore, Craig told them, anything remotely resembling a share house was under close watch by the cops, subject to raids at any time of day, and handed fines for practically anything. (For instance, only eleven cars were permitted in the driveway overnight, and while the first fine would be only, say, a hundred dollars, Craig swore additional ones could go up by ludicrous increments.) Still, at the moment no one minded being hassled by Craig. At least it provided activity.

  Slouching back into the couch seat she knew she’d lose if she got up, Rachel lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then stopped herself and put it down again. As her last hundred glances had revealed, it was some weird disorienting time like 8 PM—too late to eat dinner, too early to get ready (besides, everyone had already showered at home, as the thought of getting ready in a share house was still disconcerting), and too dark to venture out anywhere. Leaving nothing to do but sit around sluggishly, even though the last thing Rachel possibly felt was sluggish.

  The movie Anchorman was blaring across the large television screen, but not only had Rachel already seen it, she hadn’t particularly cared for it the first time around. Still, she attempted to feign interest, mostly because everyone else was. In fact, from the looks of things, you would have thought it was the most thrilling movie anyone had ever seen. Noticing that day’s Post on the coffee table, she picked it up and casually flipped through the pages, which she’d already read thoroughly this morning. Next to her, she watched as Jamie bummed a cigarette from Dave, even though her roommate hadn’t smoked since her junior year abroad.

  Rachel began to think that the ease of conversation was inversely proportional to the number of people in the room. Despite forty or so bodies, the comments were few and far between, and even the extroverted people filtered what they put out there. Still, she laughed at any jokes, agreed with any remarks, and thought long and hard for something to interject, but dismissed everything as retarded after first running it through her head.

  And just like with her watch, she kept feeling the urge to glance at her phone, though of course not a single person would have called.

  Was this share worth it? Rachel wondered, her eyes moving from Dan to the rest of the room and carefully weighing the issue. Was it worth subjecting herself to all this weirdness? Not to mention the opportunity cost of this past hour of thumb twiddling. She always complained how she didn’t have enough time as it was, yet somehow all she’d done since she’d arrived here was sit around and waste it. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to get their money back, drive back to the city, and endure boredom in the privacy of her own apartment.

  Then, just when she’d reached the brink of discomfort (not to mention frustration), there came the icebreaker in the form of a guy named—

  “Hiscock?” Ilana shrieked, stampeding downstairs with the clones at her heels. A gazillion eyes turned to face her all at once. “Very funny. Who wrote that name on one of the doors?”

  “I did,” Rob and Brian said at the same time, calling both their bluffs.

  “I did,” Mark responded, glaring at the guys and eagerly taking a brief hiatus from his calls of duty. “But that’s really his name. I promise you it’s not a joke.”

  “You honestly expect us to believe John Hiscock is someone’s name?” Ilana challenged, resting her hand on her bony hip in confrontation.

  “Swear to God!” Mark attested, his pupils dancing as he jumped from his seat in defense. “There’s a group of Australians doing a quarter share. I met up with them last week, they’re totally normal.” Seeing everyone still unconvinced, he added, “And apparently Hiscock is a pretty common last name in Australia.”

  “So then...where is Hiscock?” Ilana asked, giving rise to torrents of laughter. Taken aback at first, Ilana eventually grinned, and catching her eye, Rachel offered her a smile back. At least for the moment, any ill will between the two groups of girls had subsided.

  “That’s a good question,” Mark answered, turning to Craig. “Wasn’t Hiscock supposed to be out this weekend?” Which summoned even harder laughter. “Oh, come on. Be adults about this,” Mark scolded playfully.

  But that was all anyone needed to hear. After that, it was a free-for-all.

  “Is Hiscock coming?”

  “Have you seen Hiscock?”

  “Leave Hiscock alone!”

  Not even a group of ten-year-olds would have found the word any more amusing than this assembly of repressed twentysomethings. Instantly each became abundantly grateful not just for the name Hiscock, but for the fact that someone had discovered it at that particular moment. And before Rachel knew it, tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she found herself hiccupping uncontrollable laughter. Its contagion spread to nearly everyone around her, people who just moments ago were utter strangers, but with whom she’d now bonded by virtue of Hiscock. And after that, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Because after you’ve yelled Hiscock at the top of your lungs, you feel significantly less guarded about anything else you say.

  And Rachel was shocked at exactly how many jokes could emanate from one name. They kept coming and coming, and just when she thought they were over, out popped another. Wiping her eyes, Rachel once again glanced around the room, noticing the merriment on not just the male faces, but everyone’s. True, the potential for meeting someone may have been what lured her here, but she now realized a guy wasn’t the only reason she should stick it out this summer; perhaps not even the most important one. It was suddenly apparent that this share house was a means to share in wildly unpredictable and memorable new experiences. So it wasn’t Dan but, rather, Hiscock that had shown Rachel exactly why this was worth it in the first place.

  Perhaps the only person who didn’t find Hiscock ridiculously entertaining was Allison, who’d lost her sense of humor when she’d discovered Josh in the house. Still, Rachel imagined, screaming Hiscock in front of a guy whose anatomy you’d seen regularly was about as comfortable as watching a sex scene with your parents. And for the first time ever, Jamie was in a room with guys whose anatomy she hadn’t yet uncovered, a source of entertainment in itself. Even if she had been continually looking around—presumably for Jeff, the guy she worried would be stuck on her.

  Craig finally put an end to the Hiscock jokes. “I don’t know how much time you guys need to get ready, but we have to leave by eleven.”

  This was enough to set each girl into a frenzy. Glancing at her watch, Rachel discovered—much to her delight—that it was way later than she’d thought. Joining the stampede up the steps, the group scurried off in a million directions to get ready.

  Back upstairs in the room, Rachel dug swiftly through her duffel, though a smile lingered on her face.

  For Rachel still believed that the art of conversation was of vital importance to the share house. But apparently not as important as the existence of this particular shareholder.

  So at the end of the day, it didn’t even matter that Hiscock never came at all.

  Chapter Five

  Flip went the cup as Rob, one of the many showered-but-half-dressed people gathered around the dining room picnic table, succeeded in overturning an all-important plastic prop.

  Flip went Jamie’s mood, as she realized her Friday night now revolved around watching this.

  Spurred on by loud chants and a banging on the table that reverberated through the house, Rob triumphantly downed the cup of beer while Jamie threw back the remainder of the vodka she’d served herself. Sh
e hadn’t poured nearly enough.

  Resting her empty cup on the coffee table, which was littered with cigarette stubs and trash, she leaned her designer-clad body back and sank farther and farther into the beer-drenched sofa. If the LIE hadn’t been enough of a clue, it was now painfully obvious to Jamie that she wasn’t in Manhattan anymore.

  In fact, with her four-inch stilettos, loud designer mini dress, and artfully made-up face, against a backdrop of people playing a drinking game that warranted ratty old T-shirts, Jamie looked like the answer to a what-doesn’t-belong-here puzzle. Worse yet, she felt like it.

  “No flip cup?” Dave asked, scurrying by her, but not without first giving her the obligatory checkout, to her satisfaction.

  Too pained to speak, Jamie merely shook her head. Then she buried it in her perfectly manicured hands. Oh, where in the world was she?

  Or rather, where in the Hamptons was she? Jamie prided herself on knowing everything there was to know about the Hamptons, and what she hadn’t known, she’d researched. She’d watched Single in the Hamptons, Murder in the Hamptons, Barbara Kopple’s Hamptons documentary...She’d read countless issues of Hamptons Magazine, Dan’s Papers, and “Hamptons Diary” in the New York Post...For an added kick, she’d even spiced up her French manicure with East Hampton Cottage (a dazzling shade of pearl pink from the Essie summer nail polish line). But much to her chagrin, Jamie had just uncovered a part of the Hamptons she’d never known existed.