LoveHampton - Softcover

Rifkin, Sherri

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312380216 ISBN 13: 9780312380212

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2008

Synopsis

It's almost summer, and in certain circles, summer means summer share. After an intervention by her three best friends forces her out of a break-up induced personal hiatus (read: depression), TV producer Tori Miller ditches her old look with the help of a makeover on a reality show pilot. She premieres her new-and-improved self in a rented Hamptons summer house she's sharing with seven complete strangers. Over the next three months, Tori becomes the wing-woman to a glamorous new B.F.F., attempts to win over her house's prickly Resident Alpha Female, is drawn into a web of secrets by a charming Brit, and suddenly finds herself entangled in one too many complicated romances.But it isn't long before Tori starts getting tripped up by the many Hamptons Unwritten Rules of Survival, which threaten not only to implode her new, carefully cultivated social standing but more importantly, call into question Tori's ability to see people for who they truly are, including herself. Ultimately, Tori must decide who she really is, what she wants, and what she's willing to give up to get there - all by Labour Day.

About this title

About the Author

Sherri Rifkin, a former TV marketing executive, lives in New York City, where she writes for a variety of entertainment and media clients, including Bravo, USA Network and the Style Network. LoveHampton is her first novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

LoveHampton

A Novel

By Sherri Rifkin

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2008 Sherri Rifkin
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-312-38021-2

CHAPTER 1

Season Preview

Hamptons Unwritten Rule #1: There is no other place to be between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

I'm standing outside of Dos Caminos, the original one on Park Avenue South, my hand frozen on the cool bronze C of the DC-shaped door handle, my breath shallow and heart pounding. This should be easy. All I have to do is pull the door open and go inside — but I can't. Even the name of the restaurant — which I've translated, using my ninth-grade-level Spanish, as "two roads" — seems to be taunting me. Why did I decide to do this again? Is this total immersion thing really necessary?

But it's too late. I need to get a life. Now. Because I haven't had one for almost two years. For better or worse, I've already embarked on this particular road — not necessarily by my own choice, but for my own good.

And this road continues with tonight: having dinner with seven complete strangers, only one of whom I've been in contact with, and that was via e-mail. It's far worse than a blind date and not because it's like being on seven simultaneous blind dates, but because no matter if we love or hate one another after this evening, we all have committed to a very intimate three-month-long relationship.

We are going to be sharing a house in the Hamptons for the summer.

I look down at the sidewalk and focus on a crack by my foot, trying to employ a breathing technique I learned recently to help calm me down. I start by closing my eyes, taking deep, rhythmic breaths, pulling fresh air — as fresh as it can be in New York City — into my diaphragm and exhaling to the count of four. Before I can finish my first round, the heavy glass door swings open from the inside as a group of people push their way by me without so much as an "excuse me," knocking me back several paces from the door, causing me to stumble into an older couple passing by.

"Watch it!" the man shouts at me while his wife grabs his arm and stage-whispers, "She must be on drugs!" Clearly, this is no time for meditation. I might as well get this over with.

I raise my head, straighten my back, turn up the corners of my mouth into a semblance of a smile, pull the door open, and step through.

Hamptons Unwritten Rule #2: First impressions — especially when made at the Pre-Summerhouse Dinner — last a summertime ... and then some.

The small bar is packed even though it's a Sunday night. I scan the crowd, looking for a group of people who could be my housemates, but unfortunately, I have no reference point for recognizing them. When I exchanged e-mails with Leah earlier in the week and she told me about the dinner, I forgot to ask what she looked like. The plan was to meet for drinks in the bar at seven o'clock with the dinner reservation set for seven-thirty. My predinner panic attack set me back by only ten minutes, so theoretically everyone should be here and I avoided being the first one to arrive.

After one more fruitless look around, I ask the hostess.

"I seated them ten minutes ago. Let me bring you back."

Strange, I think, as I follow her into the loud, cavernous restaurant. She abandons me at a table filled with a comely crowd.

A skinny woman with beautiful long blond hair and a great body but not a particularly soft or pretty face shoots out of her chair and stalks toward me in a suede miniskirt and sheer white fitted blouse, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a flawless, possibly surgically enhanced cleavage. "Miller! Where have you been?" She looks like the kind of girl Molly Ringwald would instantly be intimidated by in a John Hughes movie. I just wish I was feeling even as remotely confident as Molly Ringwald would be in this situation.

"It's Tori, actually. Are you Leah? It's so nice to meet —"

"What happened to you? You're so late! We thought you were bailing on us."

"Only by a few — well, ten — minutes, right?"

"More like forty." She throws back her blanket of straight multitonal blond hair over her shoulder, then cocks her head to the side so her tresses fall right back into place. Perfectly.

"I thought your e-mail said drinks were at seven."

"That was the original plan, but then everyone wanted to start earlier, so we decided to move it up to six-thirty. Didn't you get my e-mail today?" She blinks at me several times.

"I don't check my e-mail on the weekends. It's against my religion," I joke.

Blink, blink. "Well, the important thing is that you're here now. And your check cleared." She flips her hair again. "Kidding! Seriously, you're going to have a great time this summer. It's going to be mad fun, if tonight is any indication. So. Let me introduce you." She spins around on her high heels, causing her hair to fan out in a wide circle and leads me toward three girls at the end of the table, all of whom are wearing versions of the perfect we-know-it's-Sunday-night-but-this-isstill-an-important-social-occasion outfit, noting with relief that I'm in the same fashion camp, thanks to a little recent outside help.

"Abigail, Cassandra, Stacy: meet Miller."

"Hi, it's great to meet you all. Actually, my name is Tori. I know it's confusing, since the name on my email is Miller at MillerWorks dot —"

"Do you live really far away, like in an outer borough or something?" Abigail gives me a limp, clammy hand to shake. She, unlike Leah, is naturally very pretty, but the scowl on her face is not doing her any favors. As much as I am apt to project that her frown is for my benefit, I get the feeling she is cursed with a permanently displeased expression, since it seems to fit perfectly with her nasal tone.

"No, I came straight from home, a little bit farther downtown. Why?"

"Well, it's just that you were so late."

Now it's my turn to blink.

"Miller says she doesn't check her e-mail on the weekends," Leah answers Abigail. This time, I don't bother correcting her about my name.

"I didn't know anyone still did that," Abigail comments, still frowning. Talk about a conversation ender. I shift on my feet, unsure of what to say or do next. I'm woefully out of practice meeting and socializing with new people outside of business situations. Speaking to my three best friends, two of whom work for me, is one thing. Trying to create new friendships when you've been sitting on the bench for two years is another matter entirely. I was kind of hoping that this was one of the things that was supposed to be like riding a bike, but now that it's happening, I'm not too sure.

"Hey there, I'm Cassie." She reaches across Abigail to shake my hand with a cool, confident grip. "I am so coveting your blouse! It's fantastic. I hope you plan on bringing it out to the house. We look to be about the same size. ..." She gives me a wide, welcoming smile.

I feel my shoulders start nudging down from my ears for the first time since I left my apartment. "Thanks. I ... it's new."

Stacy pops up out of her chair and gives me the kind of hug that little kids give. She's much shorter than the other three girls and has a head of massive shoulder-length dark brown curls, big brown eyes to match, and a face full of freckles. "Hi, Miller! Did Leah tell you we're going to be roomies? Isn't that great? We're going to have so much fun together! I have a car, which you're welcome to use anytime because I heard you don't have one. And if you ever need a ride out there, I can totally drive you —"

Leah cuts her off. "Stacy, Miller still needs to meet the guys. You'll have plenty of time to bond with your new roomie later."

Leah leads me around to the other side of the table until we're standing in front of three very good-looking men. My heart starts pounding. They will be the first straight, unmarried, non-work-related men I've spoken to in two years.

"Guys, this is Miller. Miller, this is Michael, Andrew, and Jackson."

In response to their chorus of friendly greetings, all I can do is nod. And then there it is again: the abhorrent, awkward silence.

"Cat got your tongue or something?" Michael asks with a heavy Long Island accent.

Suddenly they're all staring at me. Maybe I can make a run for it. All I'd have to do is push Leah out of the way, jump over that baby stroller at the next table. ... Just then, Andrew stands up to shake my hand. "Hey there. I'm Andrew Kane. Welcome to the nut house." He's solidly over six feet, has dirty-blond wavy hair — slightly longish for a guy but not hippie-ish — a strong chin, hazel eyes, and underneath an untucked striped button-down shirt and well-fitting dark jeans, a seemingly built body. Celebrity He Most Resembles: Simon Baker. But the fact that he resembles anyone famous means that he is definitely out of my league.

"Nice to meet you," I choke out as casually as possible.

He leans in and stage-whispers, "You seem like a nice, normal person. You might want to run while you still can." He pushes his chin in Michael's direction, who is too busy CrackBerrying to notice.

Does this guy read minds? "I was actually just considering that very thing, but I thought I'd give everyone a few more minutes before deciding whether I'm going to need to exercise that option."

He narrows his eyes at me and then laughs. Score one for Tori, I mean, Miller.

"You know, it's really bad that you were late ..."

Et tu, Andrew? "But, I wasn't —"

"... because you missed happy hour. I wouldn't recommend experiencing this awkward presummer ritual sober. What can I get you?"

"How about a margarita on the rocks, no salt?"

"A fine choice. I'll just order it at the bar. We currently seem to be without a waiter. Be back in a few." Andrew ambles away.

Michael puts down his BlackBerry. "Hey, Miller, why don't you take a load off?" He cocks his head toward the empty seat next to him.

"Isn't that Andrew's chair?"

"He can find somewhere else to sit. Besides, I didn't pay all that money for a share to hang out with guys, if you know what I mean." He pats the chair. I sit. He is good-looking but in a way completely opposite to Andrew. Michael's dark curly hair is clipped short, which is not doing such a good job of hiding a bald spot that's beginning to appear on the crown of his head. His best feature is his blue eyes. The only thing detracting from his looks is that he's a little puffy all over, as if he recently put on some extra poundage and it didn't know where to settle, so it distributed itself evenly from head to toe. He leans in and not so casually drapes his arm around the back of my chair.

"So, how do you all know one another?" I ask Michael, beating him to the punch.

"I know Andrew through work. I'm an investment banker, and Andrew was the lawyer on some of my deals. We got to talking at a couple of closing dinners and figured out both of us are into tennis, so we started playing out at the beach last summer. I was in another house not too far away from where he was. Then he invited me to the famous birthday bash that he throws for himself every August, which is where I met Leah. Now that was a killer party! That guy knows more people than God. I'm sure he'll do it again this year."

"I hope I'm invited."

"You're funny," he says without laughing. "Andrew and Leah randomly ended up in the same house three years ago and then they organized a house last summer, so this is their third summer together."

"I thought Leah was managing our house alone."

"She's large and in charge for sure, but Andrew helps out by bringing in people. I guess I think of it as his house too, since he was the one who asked me to join."

A huge margarita appears in front of me, delivered by the most beautiful man-hand I've ever seen adorned by a chunky silver Rolex. "I hope your cocktail is to your liking," Andrew says, "even though you stole my seat."

"I'm sorry! Michael said —"

"Don't look at me. I was just sitting here minding my own business." Michael edges away, as if I've suddenly been diagnosed with a communicable disease.

"Let me find another chair," I say.

"No worries. I should probably go spend some quality time with the other female members of the household." Andrew strides over to the other end of the table, where the girls happily make room for him in the middle of their klatch.

"I'm starving and they haven't even taken our order yet." Michael cranes his head to look around the restaurant. "I'm going to see if I can find any signs of life. If a waiter comes over, don't let him leave!" I look across the table at Jackson, who until now has been so quiet I almost forgot he was there. He is staring at me with an amused look on his face.

"So, how do you like us so far?" he says, his voice tinged with a welcome touch of sarcasm and an unexpected British accent.

"Um, good, I guess. I mean ..."

"Try not to worry yourself too much. We're not all Neanderthals. Some of us even know how to read."

I'm not sure whether to laugh or not, since he doesn't smile or give me any sense that he's kidding. "Good to know."

After we order and are settled with fresh drinks, the group's attentions turn back to themselves and thankfully away from me.

I'm the most intrigued by Jackson, who remains quiet but I can tell keenly tuned in. As he made a point of saying, he so clearly, even visibly, is different from the rest of the housemates. He has brown wavy hair that is longish and falls into his face, like Michael Stipe circa the late 1980s, causing him to repeat the fruitless gesture of raking his hand through it to push it out of his eyes. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, which successfully — and I'm going to guess deliberately — give him a studious look. He's medium height and thin, bordering on gaunt-looking. Jackson clearly hasn't shaven today, if at all this weekend. His clothes have the air of being expensive, possibly even custom-made, but upon closer look, are well worn and frayed. Since there's no smoking inside, he has excused himself more than once to "nip outside" for a cigarette. Even though we haven't said more than a few words to each other, I imagine him and me to be the two outsiders of the group and feel comforted by that.

By the time the dishes are cleared, I'm more than a little buzzed (three margaritas apparently will have that effect) and feeling emboldened, albeit artificially. So when everyone seat-hops, I follow suit, situating myself next to Cassie. The best way to describe her is a superstylish former ballerina. She has shiny chestnut-colored hair that's pinned back into a loose, messy knot. The few, well-positioned freckles on her nose only help to emphasize her deep brown eyes. We're probably about the same height, but she's clearly more graceful than I could ever hope to be. I wonder how she appears to be so comfortable with her long legs and arms, when I always feel like my appendages are something I have to fight to keep under my control. Besides being genetically blessed, Cassie has what I consider to be one of the most glam jobs: she is a beauty editor at Elle. Ironically, she wears barely any makeup, not that she needs it, which is probably why she doesn't bother with it.

I'm fairly certain that I've been thoroughly embarrassing myself for the last half hour by asking her a million questions about her job and gushing about how exciting it must be. "Enough about me! I'm even boring myself. I can't imagine how excruciating this must be for you. Save me from myself and tell me what you do. It's got to be more interesting and meaningful than writing about colored wax and powder every day."

"I don't know about that ... I'll let you be the judge. I recently started my own business called MillerWorks. It's a TV on-air promotion production company."

"Okay, I have no idea what that is but it sounds good. Tell me more."

"You know those TV commercials that say stuff like, 'Watch our new show every Thursday at nine, eight central or you will be woefully clueless at tomorrow's watercooler!' or 'Coming up next, later, or tomorrow night at eight — you can't afford to miss this very special episode of the latest acronym-named medical drama/derivative criminal procedural'? We create pitches about what those should be, and then once a cable network buys into one of our concepts, we write, produce, shoot, and edit it. Sometimes they just air the spots on their own channels to drive tune-in, but if they're doing a big marketing campaign around a new show launch, they run them on other networks like regular commercials."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from LoveHampton by Sherri Rifkin. Copyright © 2008 Sherri Rifkin. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2008
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0312380216
• ISBN 13: 9780312380212
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 320