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bedrooms. Decorated by John Ryman, a stylist for Bruce Weber, it had an island oasis vibe, with purple and coral flowers, four-poster bamboo beds, and enormous plants. Hummingbirds were everywhere. Design was one of my mother’s passions. She was in heaven working with John, and had another house featured in Architectural Digest .
    Why not buy a vacation house in the Hamptons? My father used to say, “I’m not spending a fortune to just sit in a backyard.” He looked at some impressive estates in Montauk and Sag Harbor, including the house that Calvin Klein eventually bought on Georgica Pond in East Hampton. (He kicked himself years later for not buying that place.) But Dad wasn’t a horses-and-luncheon Hamptons kind of guy. For one thing, it wouldn’t be the antidote to city life. Everyone we knew went to the Hamptons. It was a small, claustrophobic community. You’d see the same people on the beach as you would on your block. Dad wanted a true escape—for my sake. In Jamaica, we had a private pool in a secluded area. I could go swimming and lie in the sun with my leg comfortably exposed. No one would see me, stare at me, or pity me.
    Buying in Jamaica in 1980 was risky, though. It wasn’t very safe then. A man named Sterling guarded the estate. He was old and sweet, and carried an automatic rifle. At night, we closed the villa gates and locked them with five-inch-thick unbreakable padlocks. We would always catch Sterling falling asleep at his post. We all found this hysterically funny, except for my mother, who said, “What happens if burglars come in and shoot Sterling while he is asleep?” That was typical Mom.
    My parents loved to entertain, and invited friends down to Jamaica often. If the gates and guards put them off at first, theystopped caring after smoking some ganja. Our houseman was responsible for the overall working of the estate, as well as getting pot for my parents’ guests. (For the record, Mom and Dad did not smoke pot.) One family friend smoked constantly, wake-and-bake style, out of a supersize cardboard tampon applicator. He’d fall asleep with a lit joint. As I got older and knew what was going on, I lay in bed at night, worrying about a house fire. In addition to the guard and houseman, six other people worked in the house, from gardeners to chefs.
    We were members of the nearby Round Hill Club. It had a beach and a bar, and we made friends there from all over the world. Some Round Hill fixtures were Ralph Lauren, Paul McCartney, Alec Baldwin, and Kim Basinger. Celebrities didn’t faze us. Dad represented so many famous people that we were inured. Before John Lennon was shot, Dad used to go to see him at the Dakota three times a week. Regarding all of his celebrity clients, Dad would say, “Please, Aviva. Their shit stinks, too. Their finger goes through the paper.”
    “Gorsghe!” Mom yelled in response.
    “They just got a lucky break,” Dad continued. “Remember that.” I was trained at a very young age to be unimpressed by bullshit and fame. Thanks, Dad!
    Andre and I hung out with the Lauren kids a lot at Round Hill. Our school vacations were on the same schedule, and we often flew down on the same plane with them. One Christmas break, our family got bumped out of first class. My dad’s travel agent booked the seats, but when we checked in, they told us our seats were gone. My father was pissed. We were downgraded and when we boarded the plane, in what were supposed to be our seats sat Ralph Lauren and his family. Dad flipped. He screamed, “Ralph, you paid them off! It’s not right!” followed by a stream of cursing. He actually grabbed Ralph’s collar. The Brooklyn street guy really came out when you messed with hisfirst-class seats! He calmed down when they came up with two seats for my parents in first class. My brother and I sat in the back.
    Years later, I briefly dated Andrew Lauren, Ralph’s son. We were in Jamaica, and he asked me to have dinner with his family at