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Long Island is New York society’s barometer. The higher up the social ladder you climb, the further up the island you summer. Reach the top, and you stay at the tip of the island - uptown’s summer playground: the Hamptons.

I made it. Not, sadly, thanks to an overladen bank account - but as a guest at a share house. The share is a Long Island tradition; young - and less than young - professionals who can’t afford a million-buck summer house spend alternate weekends hanging with a group of housemates.

The queen of my house share was Janet. A cross between Ab-Fab-Patsy and Bette Midler, Ms J has more front than Madison Avenue. Other sharers included an estate agent couple with the mutual pet-name “bagel”, a city broker - favoured husband material for Hamptons’ single women – and a fashion consultant with a limitless wardrobe of vintage clothing.

The Hampton’s day starts with the choice of beach. Not that one is more beautiful than another - they’re all blessed with golden dunes and Atlantic breakers – but because each has its own social scene. The family beaches are unpretentious and casual - where billionaire industrialists sup Budweiser from portable coolers and frizbee with their kids. The houseshare hang outs are identifiable by clusters of singletons in search of summer loving

After the beach, the bar. Cyril’s is legendary: named after its ex-Pat Irish owner - a bibulous, reggae-loving, hippie surf dude - our man wanders among the patrons in cowboy hat and a sarong. To a looping soundtrack of seventies classics (I thought Pass the Dutchie had disappeared into pop oblivion) I shoot the breeze with teams of house sharers in search of the night’s killer party.

My evening was in safe hands. Janet’s Brooklyn bravura was on full beam - within half and hour we are “invited” to a beach barbeque and a giant house party with music and cocktails. ‘Difficult choice, I fret: ‘Choice smoice,’ says Janet. ‘This is the Hamptons, baby - we do them both.’

You don’t expect barbeque caterers to wear white gloves. In fact, you don’t expect a barbeque to be catered, but after a half-hour of mingling I realise this beach club is so exclusive that you could only join if your ancestors arrived on the Mayflower. Trying to to eat my hamburger without embarrassing myself, I hobnobbed with characters from the pages of Scott Fitzgerald.

The party is pure Hamptons. The “house” is set in two acres of pine forest, with stages set up for the bands on the landscaped lawns. But the best performance comes from the barmen - black-shirted super-model cocktail artists, juggling their mixers Tom-Cruise style. We sip banana daiquiris until 2am, then return to our house share and cool off in the pool to the swirling sound of cicadas.

The next morning Janet gives me a who’s who on the houses hiding behind the high hedges of East Hampton. It’s a roll call of east-coast celebs: over here Martha Stewart, up there Billy Joel, down here Calvin Klein. Though the occasional MacMansion has sprung up - farmers find it hard to turn down multi millions for a few acres of land - for the most it’s picture-book Colonial elegance.

‘It’s all about discreet decadence,’ says Janet. ‘That’s the fun of the place. Nobody knows if you’re rich or stinking rich. You can walk off a beach covered in sand into a jewellery shop and try on diamond necklace and they won’t bat an eyelid.’ My disbelief is answered in Macarthur and Moser with Ms J sporting a bikini and $300,000 worth of jewels. The Pilgrim Fathers who founded the Hamptons are turning in their graves.

As the weekend draws to a close, we drive out to East Hamptons Point. The restaurant overlooks a harbour with a flotilla of boats so flash that if you sold your house you could perhaps buy the anchor. The parking boy fills us in on the celebrity factor. We’re dining in the same restaurant as Gerry Seinfeld. I spot an opportunity for an autograph. Janet saves me from a faux pas. ‘In the Hamptons celebrities are like the birds. We don’t bother them or they might not return next season.’ Gerry’s dinner went undisturbed.

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