‘To think I’ve got a degree from sodding Cambridge and I live in a rent-controlled flat in Brooklyn. What do you think all these people do for a living?’ said Sarah, with a trace of bitterness. ‘They’re twenty mil minimum; even if you’re a banker, how do you scrape together the cash for that? I mean, these are second homes – they don’t even come here most of the year.’
‘Money begets money,’ said Jim. ‘If you start with Grandad’s oil millions, Daddy turns it into stock-market billions and then you sit around waiting for the dot-com wave to mature. Unless it’s all just paper,’ he added.
Sarah nodded. ‘Unless it’s all just paper. But don’t go throwing that into conversation with Connor, OK? I wasn’t supposed to tell you about it; Jennifer told me in confidence.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning on talking to Connor at all if I can help it.’
‘Good idea.’
There was a security guard waiting at the end of the drive holding a clipboard. They gave their names and were waved through. At the end of the drive, a uniformed parking attendant took Jim’s keys: you couldn’t be expected to have to park your own Mercedes, even if it did come from Hertz for the weekend.
Jim looked up at the house. It was a huge two-storey building with tall windows, and honeysuckle climbing up the immaculate whitewashed siding.
‘I’m sure he has a really small penis,’ whispered Sarah, and they both started to laugh.
A butler opened the door and they were immediately presented with a drink that looked like fruit punch.
The hall was cavernous, with tasteful modern art on the expansive white walls. Jim looked around, working out which architect and interior designer they were likely to have used; the immaculately tasteful use of distressed white oak, copper and mirrors had the hallmark of one particularly exclusive company he had worked with.
‘This way, I think,’ said Sarah, following the noise of the laughter, the rumble of voices and the chink of glassware.
Jim took a swallow of his cocktail. This whole scenario reminded him vividly
of the first time the Johnsons had visited Casa D’Or for a drinks party. Forced into a shirt and one of his father’s ties, he had skulked behind his mother and father, scowling and sullen, but had been secretly overawed by the wealth and privilege he’d been surrounded by. Blue bloods who could trace their line back to the Mayflower; rich in oil and stocks and communications, they dressed for dinner and for each other. Jim hated everything it stood for, connections and snobbery, but had secretly been impressed by it.
They stepped out from the shadow of the house on to the deck. Directly in front of them was an infinity pool that connected with its neat visual trick to the ocean. There were at least two dozen people standing around in small groups, chatting and drinking. Jim was used to mixing in these circles. He thought of himself with Simon Desai on New Year’s Eve, the conversation that had brought him here, and knew he could keep up. In these circumstances, he would usually seek out the person who had invited him, wait for them to connect him with a handful of others, and then let his charm and banter do the rest.
He saw her face almost immediately, and she had seen him. The crowd seemed to melt away as she moved towards them.
‘Sarah, Jim.’ She was wearing a floaty blue dress that fell almost to the floor; her dark hair had been pinned up on her head. In a sea of blow-dries, Botox and expensive gowns, she looked more natural and lovely than ever. ‘So glad you could make it out.’
She and Sarah embraced. ‘Jen, this place is amazing! I want to live here for ever.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had to mow the lawns.’ Jennifer grinned back.
Jim smiled, trying to imagine the spectacle of Jennifer Wyatt-Gilbert pushing an old-fashioned rotary mower back and forth across the grass.
‘And what are you chuckling about?’
‘Oh, just happy to be here,’ said Jim, leaning in for a brief kiss. ‘Sarah’s right, this place . . . whoa!’
He pushed his sunglasses up, as if to check his eyes were working correctly. Behind the pool was a gently sloping lawn; behind that, a low tangle of scrub, then dazzling white sand and beyond that, the sea.
‘It’s an amazing party,’ he said, sighing at the view and accepting a glass of champagne.
‘Well, we invite everyone at the start of summer so that they’ll come and spend at the fund-raisers we host over the season,’ she whispered playfully. ‘Come on. Let me introduce you to a few people. And don’t believe anyone who says they bought in the Hamptons before the area was fashionable.’
Jim found himself enjoying the party more than he’d thought he would. He met Chesters, Millies and Jensens; there was even a red-faced woman named Muffy. They were all wealthy, smug and patronising, but they were also masters of small talk, which allowed him to settle back and soak it all in.
‘You’re in property, Jim?’ said a tall, thin man called Cooper. ‘Very wise in this day and age. Where’s the up-and-coming area at the moment?’
‘Jamaica,’ said Jim, sensing a chance for some mischief.
‘The Caribbean?’
‘No, Jamaica, Queens. The pocket right around the AirTrain,’ he added, ignoring Sarah’s look. ‘If you have any spare cash, I’d snap up anything you can lay your hands on. It’s solid pre-war stock, near the airport, and the hipsters are moving in. And where the hipsters go . . . Look at Brooklyn. Can’t buy a fourth-floor walk-up for less than a mil in Williamsburg any more.’
Cooper nodded sagely and conversation moved on to the rising costs of running a car in the city. Sarah raised a laugh by suggesting they all chip in for a minivan and take it in turns to pop to Whole Foods. Eventually she and Jim detached themselves and drifted down towards the pool.