There’s an art to crashing a swanky Hamptons party. It should be done with a certain finesse, or at least a gung ho shamelessness that accompanies three or four vodka tonics. True, actually knowing the host or hostess would be considerably classier, but that’s not about to stop us on our quest for snooty revelry in this Shangri La of ocean view opulence.
Boyfriend and I pull up to the house entrance, marked by ten-foot hedges and wrought iron gates. A white gravel driveway stretches before us, broken seashells perfectly interspersed among the rocks. We step out of our car as two men approach, one huge with brown hair gelled into a long ponytail. He’s clad in a black leather overcoat, black pants and a black muscle shirt complete with chest-hair tufts creeping over the neckline. The other is shorter and reedy, with bad skin and a smart red sport jacket.
“Are you on the list?” the Dolph Lungren-lookalike booms.
“Uhh, we’re supposed to be on T’s list, he put us on at the last minute.” Boyfriend’s better at these things than I am, so I shut my mouth and try to look decorative.
Thor lifts his walkie-talkie and roars something unintelligible, receiving an equally garbled reply. We twitch under his gaze, trying to look like we belong.
“Alright, give your keys to the valet.” He motions us through the gates with a giant paw.
We hand over the keys - he could have demanded our wallets and shoes and we’d have complied without protest - and begin the Long March down the driveway. After trekking through armies of fluffy bushes and ornate perennials, we reach the actual house, which looks like a cutout from a real estate brochure. Stained wood, white moldings, bay windows as far as the eye can see, over 10,000 square feet of cookie-cutter extravagance. Another leather-clad giant ushers us through the front door, and I immediately start snooping. The interior is hard wood floors, eggcream walls and mazes of doors leading to more doors. Every hall, side doorway and crevasse vomits fresh flowers.
“This way please. No guests in the side wing.” Another beefy angel of death is holding up an arm, pointing a single Bergman-esque finger towards the sliding doors lining the wall, herding us away from the inviting snooping opportunities. We soon discover that the designated doors lead to the patio, where slews of guests in pink Oxford shirts and Chanel heels are already mingling.
Next step in our crashing M.O.: Immediately approach the hostess. Even though you may have no viable business being in her house, avoiding her is a sure way to attract suspicion. Locating her is easy - look for the most elaborately dressed woman with the most expensive jewelry and the biggest personality. There she is, the one with heaps of tight blonde curls piled on her head, wearing a satin dress and a massive sapphire necklace. She carries herself a bit unsteadily, no doubt the work of the martini in her hand and the 5-inch heels strapped to her ankles.
“H! How nice to see you! Thanks so much for having us.” I mold my face into a smile, doing my best to mimic the warmth-tinged-with-an-agenda looks on the faces of the other guests gathered around her.
“Uh, thank you!” I can tell she’s running through her mental rolodex, trying to figure out who the hell I am.
“I’m a friend of T,” I say in a low voice, and she looks relieved.
“Oh, right, of course, good to see you! So glad you could make it!” Game, set, match, and we’re done, successfully past the largest hurdle. Triumphant, Boyfriend and I head into the party fray.
After two hours of devoting ourselves to the martini bar, caviar canapes, sashimi buffet and 3-tier chocolate fountain, touring the marble-lined pool and rosebush-covered grounds and watching preppy couples sway unsteadily on the dance floor, we regroup and decide to retreat. I slide through the glass doors, determined to find the bathroom. Hearing loud voices in the front hall, I duck into a roped-off living room.
“What the fuck is the matter with you! I told you not to let people upstairs!” It’s the hostess’ voice, nearly screaming.
“I’m sorry ma’am, they said they had your permission to go up there.”
“I hired you people to keep everyone out of my space, to keep the party where it’s supposed to be. I don’t want anyone going upstairs, period. I don’t want anyone sitting on this sofa - it’s an antique, do you get that? I want them sent outside where they’re allowed to be, and I want them to stay there. If you can’t figure that out, I don’t know what I’m paying you for.”
She stomps past my hiding spot and I glimpse her face, contorted with rage.
“Maybe it’s her husband.” I hear a voice emerge from the opposite hall, a young man in a paisley button down, standing in a dark corner. He’d obviously been eavesdropping, and knew that I’d been as well.
“I’m sorry?” I croak, embarrassed at being caught.
He shrugs, not sharing my shame. “Her husband showed up apparently, even though they’re divorcing. He probably took some cute friend of hers upstairs and now she’s freaking out.” He winks at me. “Quite the drama, isn’t it?”
Oh yes, as always. The true beauty of spending a few hours with the rich: you’ll go home with a full stomach, a high blood alcohol level and a heaping dose of dysfunction.