I'm on the private beach near our summer house at the far end of Long Island. It's the area known as the Hamptons.
The sand is already hot at 10 in the morning. My husband, Phil, is still back in bed in the house about 100 yards off the shoreline, sleeping off a hangover from his four-too-many glasses of cabernet last night.
He made a fool of himself in front of our company, the Gallaghers and the Rickenbachs. Charlie Rickenbach, that asshole, divorced his wife of 28 years, Cheryl, last year and married a 24-year-old woman in the spring. He had the nerve to bring the fucking bitch – the best bimbo money could buy -- around last night to our party. The Gallaghers and the Rickenbachs had just arrived at their summer homes nearby, as Phil and I have.
The men will fly back to their offices from time to time during the next two months or so – Charlie, of course, in his private jet -- but the women will remain for most of that time. I'm not looking forward to it...
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