“What do you girls think?” Brian said, turning it over to the ladies.
Rachel glanced around at her friends. Now remaining in the group were six guys (Dave, Brian, Rob, Jeff, Aaron—who’d been trying to atone for his 2 AM faux pas with uncanny niceness—and Aaron’s investment banker buddy Steve) and three girls (Allison, Jamie, and herself). Personally, Rachel could have lived without ever setting foot inside this bottle-service trap (plus, she had qualms about being the only girl not paired off), but she was all too certain what Jamie would think.
“Well, it’s like the hottest club in the Hamptons right now,” her friend stated. Looking longingly back at the door, she whispered to Rachel, “And if we were by ourselves, we’d be inside already.”
Just then, as if planted by the club for occasions like these, three girls made a grand show of exiting from a cab directly in front. It was impossible not to watch as they climbed out one by one, each more eye catching and glitzed out than the last.
In an ostentatious blaze of sequins and bold color and arresting perfume, they frolicked right up to the door, where Rich, smiling widely, was waiting with open arms (and lowered rope). After a series of air kisses, they started inside (but not before holding their hands out to be stamped for free admission).
Rachel observed this from the sidelines, where they were awkwardly standing around in limbo. More important, Dave observed this, and it instantly overturned any reservations he might have had.
“Let’s just do this,” he said. He counted the group up once again, this time with growing resolve. “Now there’s only nine of us, so maybe we can get by with one table. And even if the bottles cost eight hundred dollars, that’s less than a hundred each...”
“The girls aren’t paying,” Brian argued (just as Jamie was about to open her mouth in protest).
Dave sighed. “Fine. That’s still six of us. Let’s just go in already,” he urged, as if doing it quickly would make the overall effect less painful. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
And so it was decided. Six of the guys would go in on the bottles, Rich willingly agreed to wave in the girls...now someone just needed to put down a credit card. At that, Dave’s enthusiasm to be the ringleader instantly waned.
“Does anyone else have one? I’d do it, but I just charged a shitload this month.”
Brian went to reach for his back pocket, but Aaron was quicker.
“Thanks, Nash,” echoed the group.
“No problem,” he answered, smiling at Rachel as he handed his card over.
In truth, Rachel had been warming to Aaron over the course of the last two weeks—though this did nothing to reverse her opinion that they were romantically incompatible. Sure, he was attractive, but a young, attractive, financially sound guy who was “loving life” could be found at any bar, any night of the week (and a truckload at sports dives on Sundays). Quite frankly, Rachel had been down this road too many times with too many guys, and was acutely aware of the warning signs. Thus, a drunken text message at an inappropriate hour wasn’t just a text message: It was a rude, disrespectful, premature booty call. It was a tip of the scale, an uneven exchange, a brazen attempt to get something for nothing. It was a dismissal of rules, of courtship conventions, of courtesy, of etiquette.
But that was no reason they couldn’t be friends.
Following the bottle host to their table, Rachel was shocked to find the spacious room practically empty (and totally freezing). Why, Dune should have been paying them to come inside, not vice versa! And, sneaking a glance at the liquor menu the guys were poring over, she learned that this privilege didn’t come cheap. It was probably the only menu Rachel had ever seen where each item’s price was listed in hundred-dollar denominations.
Once the order had been placed, and they sat themselves along the interconnected strip of banquettes, there was nothing left to do but peer around observantly.
It’s an odd moment when you find yourself at a club before anyone else. Time is seemingly at a standstill, you feel a little too lame and a lot too sober, and no stretch of the imagination enables you to picture the empty expanse packed with people.
Getting drunk thus warranted their undivided attention—it being second to sleep as a vehicle to accelerate time. In pursuit of this, an ice bucket and mixers (inclusive of the Red Bull cans Dave insisted on, at an additional cost) were promptly delivered to their table. Though the true party only began upon the arrival of their esteemed vodka bottles.
Of course the same labels were available in a liquor store for a painful fifty dollars—the monetary discrepancy owing to the rental of prime banquette real estate. That, and an unspoken, less tangible transaction. One to which no guy could ever accurately attach a price. Namely, that other, uglier, manifestation of the zero-sum principle: to get ass, guys gave out free alcohol.
And to save money, more girls than you’d think readily accepted.
Girls highly unlike Rachel, who begged to differ on this account. Of course, she was quite familiar with Jamie’s line of thinking: that being offered a free drink was like spotting a twenty-dollar bill on the floor; you’d have to be a fool to not take advantage of it. To Rachel, taking a drink from a guy was more like indulging in a hot fudge sundae: the eventual repercussions far outweighed the momentary benefits. So maybe that drink seemed a blessing at first, but in the uncomfortable moments that followed, it would leave her feeling like she owed a guy something—be it sexual or as trivial as her conversation. And Rachel would prostitute her time no sooner than she would her body. Especially to someone like Aaron.
“Want a drink?” he predictably asked her during those first crucial moments when vodka is worth its weight in...well, vodka.
“No, that’s okay,” Rachel said after a brief moment of debate. Debate only because in this instance, the bottle wasn’t entirely his. But accepting his drink offer would be owing him gratitude, which would disrupt that precious equilibrium. And so, excusing herself to use the restroom, she stopped afterward at the bar to buy herself a glass of wine.
As she lingered over the counter while the bartender poured her drink, she spotted the three girls who’d preceded them into the club now standing around sullenly. The ebullience was zapped from their faces, their hands were empty (save for designer bags), and their gazes appeared fixated on the display of top-shelf alcohol...as if mentally trying to will it toward them.
“So, do you guys want to just buy a drink?” Rachel overheard one propose. This suggestion was contemplated with the gravity it deserved.
“Nah, I’m going to wait a bit,” another decided, her friends dutifully following suit. And the dark cloud of sobriety settled over the group once again.
Chuckling as she returned to the table, Rachel knew what they were waiting for, of course. They were waiting for the “giving hour”—the point when guys got just drunk enough that their inebriation took a charitable turn.
She just hadn’t expected the generosity to come from her own.
Rachel wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, for all at once the time had slipped from eleven to one and the room transformed from dreary to overflowing—as if someone had manually flipped a switch. A switch that likewise ignited an energy Rachel hadn’t found before in the Hamptons. As she was quickly discovering, there was much to be said for having a table at a communal venue like this, where groups bled (and sweated) together in the large nautical-themed room, standing on booths and shaking to the pulsating hip-hop sounds. What’s more, it was the kind of sceney place where if you didn’t have a table or know a group, it was easy to feel like an outcast.
Sort of like those girls, whom Rachel had noticed making lap after predatory lap, summoning the indiscreet glances of countless male onlookers with each. The trio danced around playfully, weaving themselves in and out of tables while air-kissing some guys but ignoring most others. All the while they laughed overzealously and shook their bodies with a reckless abandon that only the observant might realize wasn’t fueled by alcohol, b
ut rather faked in pursuit of it.
Tiring of their show, Rachel soon tuned them out—until she saw them halt alongside Dave at her table. After a mere two seconds of conversing, he proudly gestured to the bottle and uttered those words every guy loves to say, and every girl loves to hear. “Want a drink?”
What happened next could rival Pamplona. Quicker than you could say stampede, the girls charged at the bottle. It was a collective effort—one girl doled out glasses, another shoveled in a strategically minimal amount of ice, and a third generously dispensed the vodka supply.
Rachel was stunned. She shot an appalled look at her friends, but both were too preoccupied with their respective male distractions to register this outrageous event.
“Have a seat” were the next words out of Dave’s mouth, and their entire group slid over and smushed together. After a moment of consideration, the girls sat down.
Surely he must have seen the pause? Rachel wondered. That brief hesitation implying that the last thing these girls wanted was to be stuck at this table with these guys. But then it dawned on her. Pause or no pause, guys liked having pretty girls at their table. This was more even an exchange than she’d thought.
“So what are your names?” Aaron asked, practically drooling. Though he was a smart guy, he seemed totally oblivious to his role as a vodka-dispensing target. Before long, one swindler had entranced Aaron in conversation, another Dave, and the third was chatting up both Rob and Steve. Finding this extremely irritating, Rachel pretended not to eavesdrop as she nursed her white wine.
Funny, after five minutes and one superstrong vodka cranberry, one of the girls was visibly itching to rise to her feet. Her friend next to her tactfully thwarted these efforts, tugging downward at her arm and shaking her head not yet.
And so the conversations continued, with varying degrees of enthusiasm among the participants. One girl gushed with overbearing energy, another was perfectly polite but introverted, and that restless third looked like she’d rather be having a Pap smear. She was the one who suddenly reached over and seized the gigantic bottle with one hand. “This isn’t strong enough,” she declared, emptying more vodka into her second vodka cranberry.
Eagerly, her energetic friend held out her glass as well, and the first refilled it till it flooded over the brim.
Now this, someone would surely put a stop to, Rachel was certain. But if anyone minded, they masked their disapproval brilliantly. On the contrary, Aaron appeared fully content with his present company. Actually, more than content. Having captured the attention of the quiet fashionista, with curly hair, cat-like green eyes, and skin so flawless she could have passed as a Noxzema girl, Aaron looked perfectly enamored. Just as Rachel was beginning to wonder if this girl might actually be interested in him, the timer went off.
Shooting to her feet at the ten-minute mark, his companion announced (with unnatural volume), “I think I’m going to the bathroom.”
What a shock! Rachel thought. And so surprising that her friends all insisted on accompanying her! Off they danced, looking as spirited as animals that had just been uncaged.
The second their flashy outfits blended back into the crowd, Rachel flew from her seat over to Jamie. “Did you see those girls?”
“Ugh, I can’t stand them,” Jamie said. It comforted Rachel to know that her friend wasn’t blind. “I see them everywhere. They think they’re socialites or something.”
“Did you see how much vodka they were stealing? I was dying when that girl refilled all their glasses! And I can’t believe Aaron was just egging them on!”
For some reason, this last statement was the only one Jamie seemed to register. “So I’m confused...I thought you liked this guy at DIP?”
Had they not been through this?
“Um, that was before he drunk-texted me at two in the morning!” Rachel said defensively, aware she was entering into territory Jamie would never understand. Jamie, who was currently hooking up with a guy in a situation that had yet to translate outside the Hamptons. “It’s just, I have a certain way of doing things. When it comes to dating, I think there’s a certain...etiquette.”
“Are you serious? No guy cares about etiquette! It’s the summer, loosen up!” Jamie said, taking a hearty swig of four-hundred-dollar vodka she hadn’t paid for. “Life’s not that cut- and-dried. Personally, I like to live outside the box. I don’t believe in rules.”
And apparently neither did a second group of girls, who had migrated to their table while Rachel was talking to Jamie. One, with a particularly arrogant air, professed to be Steve’s “girlfriend” (he later denied this) and took to pouring drinks for herself, her friend, and her cousin visiting from Miami (to whom Rob immediately took a liking). And Rachel began to wonder if Jamie was right after all.
Thus, noticing Aaron unoccupied, she went over to him, with the intention of looking beyond his drunken offense. He didn’t make this very easy.
“So how’s Dana doing?” he asked not even a minute into the conversation.
“Fine.” Rachel’s eyes drifted down to her drink.
“Are you guys doing a lot of wedding stuff?”
“Tons,” she said. Fueled in equal part by irritation and sobriety, she decided to just put it out there. “Why do you always talk about my sister?”
“I don’t know,” he said, growing embarrassed. “I guess...you remind me of her.”
“We don’t really look alike,” she shot back.
He considered this. “It’s more like your mannerisms.”
“Oh.” Rachel brushed her blond hair back with her hand. “Do you know her well?”
“Pretty well. I mean, we worked together.” He paused momentarily, as if searching for words. “She’s a hard girl to not notice...”
“Yup,” Rachel said, throwing back the remainder of her wine in one gulp, then glancing around dismissively. If she wanted to talk about her sister’s numerous fine attributes, she could have just phoned Bridezilla herself.
Though, instead of going on about Dana, what Aaron said next took Rachel by surprise.
“Why do you hate me?” he said, looking at her intently through his thin wire frames.
“I don’t hate you,” she replied, mostly out of reflex. I just hate guys like you, she thought. Seeing as she’d captured his attention, she contemplated broaching the whole text-message topic, but ultimately decided against it. “I can just tell we’re different types of people.”
“How so?” he challenged in a way she should have anticipated.
Various nods to courtesy and etiquette (and utter lack thereof) ran through her head, but—recalling Jamie’s words—she simply shrugged the matter off.
“You’re almost done with that,” he said, pointing to her empty wineglass. “Can I make you a drink now?”
Eyeing the bottle (which a lot less deserving girls had less guiltily reaped the benefits of), Rachel decided to finally give in. “Sure,” she answered, prompting that smile from Aaron that had always appealed to her in a guy-next-door way. And with that vodka cranberry she took one tiny step away from her rules, and in the direction of faith.
Yet one giant leap en route to intoxication. Thanks to its composition of 90 percent vodka and 10 percent juice (something she’d noticed, but seemed to underestimate the effect of), the drink soon numbed her to everything except their conversation, which became one of those exchanges where everything the other person says seems handcrafted for your ears. Though just as Rachel was supposing the green-eyed girl’s loss was her own gain, the pseudo-socialites chose to resurface.
“Hey!” said girl called out to Aaron, fingering her (predictably) empty glass as the three of them approached.
“I’ll be back,” Rachel said, deciding it an ideal time to excuse herself. Joining the single-file bathroom line that moved barely an inch per song, Rachel’s buzz had fully evaporated by the time she returned. And at that point—twenty or so minutes later—the only people she recognized at the table were Aaron and the th
ree freeloaders. Rachel immediately reached for her phone, but to her dismay, she had no service. Though just as she was about to interrupt Aaron...
“Have you seen any of the guys?” he asked, a worried expression on his face.
“No,” she said. “Do you know where my friends went?”
He shook his head. “But I wasn’t really paying attention.”
I wonder why! Rachel thought. Upset now, she wasn’t exactly sure how she’d wound up in this situation, but she knew she wanted to get out of it. Glancing back at Aaron and the D-listers, she decided that, worst-case scenario, she could always take a cab to the house by herself. Whatever the cost. But the far greater cost appeared to have fallen on Aaron.
“Well, they just brought over the bill and I can’t find anyone,” he said. In his drunken stupor, he tried to think. “Do me a favor—stay here and watch the table for a sec?”
“Sure,” Rachel agreed. Because nothing would make her happier than being left alone with these three! Though once he ran off, she couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the table’s abandoned bill (and had to do a double take upon discovering it to be around nine hundred dollars).
Fortunately, that’s when she spotted Dave.
“Oh, hey!” she called out to him, grabbing his arm through the crowd. “Aaron’s looking for you. They just brought over the bill, and we can’t find anyone!”
“Yeah, okay, thanks,” he said. He turned (unbiasedly) to all three girls, who were busy sucking dry every last drop of remaining vodka. “So, what do you girls say? Want to move the party back to our house?”
The girls exchanged anxious glances. Then one of them exclaimed, on a falsely high note, “This is such a great party! Why would you want to leave?”
“Oh,” Dave said, a bit befuddled. Warming to the idea, he added, “Yeah, we can stick around.”
How the Other Half Hamptons Page 17
