Mess You Made

43.

Malibu.

The Amory club only opened a while ago. A month, maybe. I've seen nightclubs, bars and event halls around this city that have been there for years but never gain the momentum that this single club's gained since it's opening. It's due to the name— everyone knows it.

The Amory's are a hot commodity and it's because of their lifestyle everyone strives for but can never really reach. There's something about it. Money makes people feel far out of reach, makes them feel above us. Unattainable. When you have enough money to feel godly, everyone's always reaching towards them. Like even a touch of their hand is something superior.

The brothers are young men rooted in old money and generational wealth. A clearcut fantasy. An Ivy League look about them, dinners with millionaires, flashing pictures wherever Grayson Amory walks. Michelin meals, and Vacheron Constantin watches, clubs and models, the older brother on Forbes, the youngest one already predicted to be a dominant figure of future business and I don't think he's even a teenager yet.

They're a fantasy. Those sort of boys feel fictitious. Only ever in movies or magazines— but these ones are real and dominate most of the Upper East Side gossip. At least that's what I've learned whilst being here thus far.

"You're doing well."

Tom looks over at me where he's preparing a martini. He's helped teach me all the main cocktails and how to present all the drinks for the past couple days. Things nobody cares about in a rundown bar where I live, but the atmosphere here is entirely different. Especially the speakeasy— the upstairs floor is more electric. More like a normal sort of bar, still exclusive, but if you look rich enough, you can get in.

The speakeasy below is all quiet luxury. Voices aren't really raised, conversations all seem relaxed yet formal. Every single person here has a presence and a big name. Billy Idol floating through the room along with the clink of glasses.

"Thanks." I say, focusing back on the White Russian I'm making.

Tom's nice. He's been here a while. He lives over in Lenox Hill— and he says he lives modestly but he still spends his summer in the Hamptons so I'm not entirely sure. He's nice, though— and it's refreshing. Being in a work setting and not feeling entirely miserable.

I cast a quick glance around— I like to play a game. See how many names and people I can recognise because Sierra dies to hear about it all. Esther Rock, a model for Ferragamo. Niamh Hawkins under the dim lighting. Back corner. Actor. She's sat with her daughter, I think. She's wearing a pink Fendi skirt that totals to about $3000 dollars.

I keep looking around. Some really big real estate developer around this city, and then there's Alejandro Riel Madden.

Big face, and big name. Probably the biggest here. The atmosphere tends to shift when someone with a large presence walks in, and even if you don't know them— you can sense their importance and their wealth by other's reaction.

He's beautiful, too, undeniably where he sits in a corner booth with some other men. Dark skin and a cleanly shaven beard. Real strong jaw and eyes that look a bit like emeralds. Him and his father own own of the multibillion dollar oil companies in Trinidad. They call him and his younger sister the prince and princess of the Caribbean. Probably one of the richest in the world asides from Rome.

"He's a bit old, no?" Tom walks past me, picking up a glass from the shelf behind.

"How old is he?"

Tom looks over at Madden, guessing, "Think he's 28. 29, maybe." He flits me a look, "Definitely a bit old."

"Old." I tsk, "Famous. Rich."