The night begins to blur. Everybody is young and rich and beautiful, at the very least a combination of the three. It can be rather intimidating, especially when one has a very tenuous grasp on but one of those qualities. My businessman friend is chatting up a rude-looking brunette, and I'm struggling to understand what this Italian bird is saying. I attempt to pronounce her name correctly three times. Not happening. I decide to mingle, swimming through the crowd, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I don't even know where I got the cigarette; I don't smoke. I toss it into one of the luscious pot plants lining the balcony, leaning over and drinking in the panorama laid out before me. So, I think, this is what the rich do. Bloody hell. There are about five levels of pomposity, bells and whistles. It is absolutely breathtaking, hideously gorgeous, gaudy and fashionable. I guess, really, it is one or the other, it's just that the two sides of my brain are fighting for adjectives.
Coming from a working class family, there is an inherent hatred for those that have more money, more style, beauty, etc. The only thing is, it's all so bloody desirable. The women are different here, as though the wealthy breed them especially for their own amusement. The guys aren't so physically special, but the stench of cash is thick at this altitude. And, there are so many of them! Layer upon layer, like sponge cake, it looks delicious, but you just know there is very little substance on your plate. I feel dizzy. It could be alcohol, or bullshit, or just plain old resentment. I collapse on a plush lounge and am immediately engaged in conversation by a charming Irish bloke. It doesn't take long before we begin dissecting the merits of the rich. It turns out to be a rather gory vivisection.
Getting pissed in a place like the Ivy becomes a dream. It's all new, strange. Three hours ago I was drinking beer on the street, and now I'm being ushered past the door bitches and bouncers with nary a word. The funny thing is, it actually gets easier the higher up you get. If you are mingling at this level, you must be someone. I'm reminded of American Psycho, of the way Patrick Bateman would confess to murders openly, only to be asked if he'd like another drink.
This is a whole other world, a universe unto itself. I begin to understand the precious glass bowls that these people live in, so coddled and spoiled that there just isn't time to care about much else outside one's exquisite sphere.
Some of the people here are pretty normal. They don't even seem to particularly enjoy themselves, not even with the money or the glamour. I talk to a girl who seems to despise her boyfriend. I ask her why they stay together, and she just shrugs. She has another sip of brandy. She shrugs again. I find myself longing for the familiar, for the streets of Sydney, where...I don't know. It's just people. Everyone here seems to be anchored down by all of the wealth. Like the credit cards and ease of life has sucked the enjoyment out of everything. There's no challenge. You want that? Visa or Amex? I wonder what Mark and Helena are doing. My phone has died. I decide to leave. Poised to begin my descent, I turn back. I've made it this far, there's only one level to go...
One more door bitch.
