Great-granddaughters of the hotel czar Conrad Hilton, Paris and Nicky Hilton have turned the image of the demure debutante upside down with their daringly skimpy wardrobes and bicoastal bid for the media spotlight. In this flashback from our September 2000 issue, V.F. caught the early rumblings of the Hilton explosion
By NANCY JO SALES
Gisele was there, lounging up in the V.I.P. section, neon lights from the dance floor flickering off her long brown body. Ben Stiller was filming her with a digital camera, part of research, he said, for an upcoming part as a male model. Carmen Kass and Frankie Rayder were laughing.
The hip-hop kids were dancing. It was the night of the awards ceremony for the Council of Fashion Designers of America, and the after-party was at Saci, the new nightclub near Times Square. The place was full of models and the beautiful kids who make the scene, all planning on blowing up like their friend James King; they were talking about how she's starring in a Jerry Bruckheimer film with Ben Affleck that's being shot this summer.
"She still talks to us, so far," one kid said, "but we'll see."
"She's going to hook me up with her agent," said another.
They danced, throwing their hands around like rappers.
About one o'clock, a tall, blonde, ghostly girl with haunting blue eyes was seen drifting around in what looked like an expensive costume for an Austin Powers movie. It was a sequined Union Jack skirt, a micro-mini.
"Nicky!" said the paparazzi.
It was Nicky Hilton, heiress to the Hilton hotel fortune, age 16.
The photographers swarmed over her.
"Isn't it a school night?" someone said.
"She's trying to be Paris," observed one girl.
Paris was Paris Hilton, Nicky's 19-year-old sister.
Someone asked her what she was wearing.
"It's all Dolce," Nicky said, smiling, showing off the matching heels. Underneath a tight white button-down she wore a black bra.
"Nicky!" said the paparazzi. "Here!"
Hand on hip, Nicky did a runway turn, like some schoolgirl in front of her bedroom mirror-except this was real.
Nicky's sidekick for the evening, heiress Casey Johnson-as in Johnson & Johnson-stood nearby, managing to look like a character from Dynasty.
"If I were their parents, I would kick their ahsses," said an older Italian gentleman in Aristotle Onassis eyeglasses. He mentioned that he recently spent time with Paris Hilton in Paris. "She said to me, 'I am American royalty!' This is the seester? She is 16? She looks 26! She learns everything from … the seester!"
Nicky held up a bottle of Piper-Heidsick champagne, then took a sip of it through a shiny straw. The photographers loved it.
Her picture from that night turned up a few days later in the "Styles" section of the Sunday New York Times, surrounded by shots of models and movie stars and fashion designers.
On a very hot day in June, the Hilton sisters are having lunch with their parents at the family house in Southampton.
It's down a long road flanked by white potato fields-a giant Dutch Colonial home inside a gated development, with a yard bigger than a prep-school playing field. "It's the big boys with the new green stuff out here," says a social-minded taxi driver.
Conrad Hilton, the Hilton girls' great-grandfather, bought his first hotel in 1919, but the Hilton family seems forever plagued by a crisp taint of new money.
Conrad was the son of a general-store owner from San Antonio, New Mexico. His first hotel was nothing more than a flophouse for oil-field roustabouts. Even after his success, he never did well in society. A Trumpian figure, he palled around with celebrities (he seemed close to Ann Miller) and went dancing with assorted L.A. showgirls. He opened his new hotels by dancing something called the varsoviana in the ballrooms.
His second wife was Zsa Zsa Gabor, the Hungarian beauty queen. Everybody told him she was a gold digger. "Glamour, I found, is expensive," wrote Conrad in his autobiography, Be My Guest, which graces the nightstand of every Hilton hotel room in the world.
Rick Hilton-grandson of Conrad, father to Paris and Nicky-is sitting on the wide wooden side porch, staring hard at some begonias. He has a glass of ice water in his hand; he looks a bit sunstruck.
He's a tall, athletic man in a pair of khaki shorts and a wild print shirt, like a college boy. At 43 years old, he has the air of a character from Hemingway, angered by something.
He tries to smile.
He stands and grimaces resignedly.
"I'll go get them."
There's the smell of smoke.
Someone named Paul is cooking chicken on an outdoor grill. Someone named Josie brings a bowl of ice and puts it on a picnic table next to Key-lime pie and fruit and salad. Everybody moves slow, and looks a little tired.
Now the mother, Kathy Hilton, bursts through French doors, clicking across the porch in a cheek-high Lili Pulitzer skirt and Sergio Rossi sandals. She has on a kooky, flowered hat.
She's trying to seem upbeat. She's a chronic good sport.
Kathy Hilton is only 39 ("I've been doing this kid thing a long time!") and has the toned, cute look of a former head cheerleader to Rick's football captain. They met through friends in L.A. when she was 15 and he 19.
The two champagne-colored Pomeranians start barking in unison for no apparent reason.
"Dolce!" says Kathy. "Sebastian!"
The first Pomeranian is named after the fashion designer; the second one is named after the boy in Cruel Intentions who takes a girl's virginity in order to win a bet that will allow him to sleep with his stepsister. The dogs belong to Paris.
We sit down at the porch table, set for five, and Kathy says she doesn't like having reporters around. (Later she'll mention that there's a security guard waiting to remove me if at any time that becomes necessary.)
Paris Hilton alights on the porch. She has sleepy, unnaturally blue eyes, and looks as if she'd be hot to the touch. She looks like a 1930s movie siren, all sparkly warm blonde glow.
She sits down and smiles wanly, winningly.
She's wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of four-inch-high Lucite sandals that look as if they would be worn by streetwalkers on the planet Zorg.
The topic of Leo comes up.
"We hang out at parties," Paris says softly. "He's a nice guy, but as far as the story that I-"
Kathy interrupts: "Did you see the story? I mean, a full page in the National Enquirer? We were harassed! We had camera crews waiting downstairs"-at the Waldorf Towers, the Hiltons' home in New York City-"because it said that he"-he is Leonardo DiCaprio-"would come up to the apartment and whatever. The paparazzi stand outside Paris's house in L.A.-they waited for her at the airport!
"It said they had a big fight in a taxi, so I called Paris and said, 'What's this?' And she said, '(A) I have not been to New York in nine months, and (B) I have never had a fight with him, and (C) I have never been in a taxi with Leonardo DiCaprio!' Now, what does that tell you?"
Kathy giggles; she giggles a lot.
"'Paris the Heiress,'" says Kathy, mentioning one way the press refers to her daughter. "I tease her about that. My friends call and say, 'Is this Mrs. It?' because they call her the 'It' girl."
Her sons, Barron, 10, and Conrad, 6, were excited to see Paris in the Enquirer.
"The boys said, 'Paris is marrying Leonardo DiCaprio?' And I said, 'No, no. Where do you think they get their stories from?' I guess everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame, and they want to be heard, and they wanna talk and chat, and I see people at parties doing this and I think to myself, What are you doing?"
"People think I'm just this party girl," says Paris. "Well, I'm not like that. I don't just go to parties. I wake up in the morning and go to auditions. I was going to go to college, but then I decided to take a year off. They were mad." Her voice trails off, and she wears a little smile.
"She knows she's going to have to start supporting herself," Kathy says. "She's finally figuring that out."
In fact Paris has just finished shooting an independent feature called Sweetie Pie, a teen thriller. She plays Sweetie Pie.
"Basically, I'm killed, like, right in the beginning.… But what I'd really like people to know is that I'm working on fund-raising for breast cancer," Paris continues softly, "'cause my grandmother is sick."
"Well, then, speak up!" Kathy says, her voice suddenly tremulous. She has been devastated by her mother's illness.
"I'm trying to," Paris says smoothly, "but you're always interrupting me."
Kathy grows quiet.
The Hilton boys are in the living room blasting a CD. "Do you believe in life after love?" asks Cher.
Of all the girls in gossip land, people gossip the most about the Hilton sisters. Perhaps that's just the price of being blonde, beautiful, rich, and spirited.
"They live very colorful lives," says Jason Binn, who, as publisher of Hamptons magazine, knows some of the social territory occupied by the Hilton sisters. "They're little stars. They've become names. To them it's like a job. I believe they wake up every morning and say, 'O.K., where am I supposed to be tonight?'"
Maybe Paris's habit of being out there has helped her professionally: she has just signed with T Management, Donald Trump's modeling agency.
A friend describes how Paris behaves when she enters a hotel belonging to the family, which includes the Waldorf-Astoria: "She'll, like, roll up to the Waldorf like snap, snap to the desk clerk: 'You give me a key' … with that glare in her eye, like she's Zsa Zsa Gabor or something. Grabs the key out of their hand, like: 'Tell them to send up room service right now!'"
And then there's the supposed rivalry with the Schnabel sisters-Stella, 17, and Lola, 19, daughters of the painter Julian Schnabel. It's like something out of Edith Wharton. "She and Nicky are like partners in bitch crime," the friend continues. "They have an ill competition with the Schnabel girls. They do not like each other. It's like battle of the society sisters: 'Oh, we both had our pictures in the Post by the time we were 14!' … It's a notorious rivalry, like: 'Can you believe the dress she's wearing? I would not be caught dead in that.' It's like, who looks the oldest at the youngest age, and who got into Spy bar first, and this and that … "
"There are people that get jealous and they say Nicky is a snob or Paris is a snot," says Kathy Hilton. "I know I've heard it, but I think they're pretty sweet kids." And while the girls may be sweet, their mother also sees something else: "Star is her nickname," Kathy says of Paris. "We call her Star."
"Paris is a little lost," says a friend of Kathy's.
"Paris is a good time," says Asher Levin, the director of Sweetie Pie.
"Her character was close to home for her," says Cisco Adler, producer of Sweetie Pie. "She's a young party girl who gets sucked into the L.A. party scene and grew up a little too fast."
"I've seen them out at night, and it's not something their parents would take well," says one girl socialite.
The River Club in New York hosted a sweet-16 party in 1998 for debutante Marissa Bregman, a friend of Nicky's. It was covered by a reporter from the New York Times "Styles" section, and the whole story ended up as a star vehicle for Nicky. It seems that Nicky and her good friend Olympia Scarry took over, grabbing boys off the dance floor and kissing them.
And not everything made it into the Times's account, says Patricia Eden, the River Club's membership secretary. "There were a lot of other things that took place that I'm not going to discuss on the phone," she says, hanging up.
Kathy doesn't like such talk, and she doesn't quite believe it when the Post's "Page Six" runs an item saying Paris was doing a karaoke version of a Madonna song at the Moomba club in Manhattan wearing a coat over fishnet stockings, a see-through camisole, and a thong.
"Oh, absolutely not!" Kathy says. "The girls were singing Madonna at one of the new places in the city, and it was a lingerie party, and I know exactly the outfit Paris was wearing, and it was a little short thing with a little fur that goes around it and little shorts that go under it. It wasn't a G-string! Paris is the most modest girl."
"It's like all she wants to do is become famous," says one friend, "to wipe out the past, to become somebody else."
"That's every night for Paris-jump up on a table and dance, go to Dublin's Monday night, go to Guy's Bar on Tuesdays, Playboy Mansion all the time, Las Palmas on Wednesday.… At some point you must not be having fun, but I think she is, glittering like a disco ball. She's ambitious for attention," says another friend.
Causing talk in polite society is something of a Hilton-family tradition. Everyone talked in 1941, when Conrad Hilton tried to buy the Plaza-only to find himself squeezed out by competitors who couldn't bear to see the place go to a "tumbleweed." (He showed 'em eight years later, when he purchased his dream property, the Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue.) And in 1950 and 1951, there was more talk, with the scandalous eight-month marriage of Conrad Nicholson Hilton Jr.-the son of Conrad-known as Nicky, and beloved 18-year-old movie star Elizabeth Taylor. At the time of their divorce proceedings, she said he had told her to go to hell; later, she said he had abused her, physically and mentally.
Back at the house in Southampton, we're eating chicken. We're all at the table, Rick, Kathy, Paris, and Nicky, whose long pale legs flow out of a pair of tiny dark shorts. She's picking at a huge plate of food.
"Right now I'm also working on recording an album with this guy Romeo in L.A.," Paris is saying.
"He likes to just go by 'Romeo,'" Kathy interjects. "That's L.A. for you!"
Romeo is Ray Antonio, a producer who has worked with Prince, Mariah Carey, and Christina Aguilera. He was introduced to Paris by the people in L.A. who are making an independent documentary film called Guest List Only. It started out being about a bunch of L.A. club girls, but now it's mainly about Paris. And now Romeo is in the film.
Rick Hilton looks up from his plate and asks, "What are Eminem's big songs?"
Paris brightens. "Eminem? He's so funny-he's hysterical."
"Eminem?" Kathy says.
"Conrad has the CD, Dad," says Nicky. "Remember? You got mad."
"No one has a style like his, and no one's gonna copy him, either, 'cause he will totally embarrass them!" says Paris.
"Well, I guess I missed all that," Kathy says.
"Does Puff Daddy perform a lot?" Rick ventures on. "What is his big song?"
Kathy looks exasperated. "Well, would ya know him if you tripped on him?"
Rick thinks a moment. "No."
Next topic of conversation: Puffy's legal troubles-the gun charges, bribery, assault.
"Well, just because you're a celebrity doesn't mean you shouldn't get in trouble if you do something," Paris says.
"Oh, yeah, celebrities think that all the time," Kathy says quickly.
"You keep interrupting me," Paris tells her mother.
There's a long silence.
Nicky laughs again, dryly and somewhat mysteriously.
"There are some people, I guess," continues Paris, "who feel they can get away with anything-"
"This is just so ironic," scoffs Nicky.
Kathy giggles nervously. "We were having this conversation last night," she says.
No one says anything for a while. The silence is deafening.
I say, "Your eyes are so blue, Paris."
"Yeah," says Paris. "They're contacts."
Nicky says, "Mine are real."
"We're doing a cosmetics line together," Paris says. "We're calling it Paris and Nicky. My mom is really handling all that."
"Well," Kathy says, "they were always beading bracelets and jewelry and doing T-shirts; then they started seeing people were really out there going ahead and going for it! And I said, 'Look, people are out there doing it,' and the girls would be like, 'But, you know, I'm embarrassed,' and I'd say, 'Look, if you don't take your art and go and show it off, then nobody's ever gonna see it!'"
Nicky laughs again.
"Are you and Paris close?" I ask her.
Nicky nods a little.
Paris says, "Very."
"What do you like to do together?"
"Paris and Rick and I play a little golf in Los Angeles," says Kathy. "Nicky and I are more the shoppers. Ice-skating and skiing-we like to go skiing, we like Tahoe-"
Rick says, "Vail."
Paris says in a baby voice, "I like going to pet stores with my dad, ever since I was little." Her unreal eyes are fixed on her father. "We go in and we buy a puppy."
Suddenly Nicky shrieks. She jumps up and starts flailing all over the porch like a pony that's been shot with a BB gun. A dark beetle has landed on her.
When the Hilton sisters moved from L.A. to New York in 1996 (their father was opening a New York branch of his real-estate office, Hilton & Hyland), the transition wasn't easy.
"New York and L.A. are very different," Paris says. "I cried. I thought I was gonna hate it here."
"I cried," Nicky says gloomily. "Everything was, like, different. Like when I was in L.A. in seventh grade we would just all sit home on a Friday night and watch movies and, like, make up dances, and in New York there's, like, house parties and boys … "
Friends from L.A. say Paris started going out when she was 13, claiming she was 22 and getting away with it. Her friends were what someone calls other "kids of": Nicole Ritchie, daughter of Lionel; Kidada Jones, daughter of Quincy; Brent Shapiro, son of Robert; Bijou Phillips, daughter of John. In New York, at 15, she persuaded her parents to put her in the Professional Children's School alongside Macaulay Culkin and Christina Ricci.
"Paris went to interview at Sacred Heart," Kathy says, "and said, 'Mom, I'm not going to an all-girl school!'"
Something didn't work out at the P.C.S. "There were kids there who were serious ballerinas," says Kathy, by way of explanation-and so in her junior year Paris transferred to Dwight, a private school on Central Park West. (Certain Manhattan private-school kids joke that Dwight is an acronym for "Dumb White Idiots Getting High Together.") Paris didn't like Dwight either.
"She knew no one at that school," says her mother. "I am telling you, I don't think she bonded with one person. She had us, she had people from L.A."
"Paris was sort of more sophisticated. She was different from everybody else," says a Dwight classmate. "But she was always, like, really nice. Her parents were always traveling. She looked like a Barbie doll, and other kids didn't know how to react to it."
The kids she seemed to bond with in New York were a different crowd-"much richer," says one of them, who refers to his circle as "the trustafundians." "You're talking about Sokoloffs, Radziwills, Steinbergs, Tisches, and Saudi princes' kids."
Toward the end of her senior year at Dwight, Paris "vanished," says a classmate. "No one saw her anymore at school and there was no explanation."
So people started to talk. Saying that she had run away.
It seemed that Kathy Hilton preferred to answer some of the more delicate questions about Paris on her daughter's behalf. Asked about Paris's quick exit from school, Kathy says in a phone interview, "Well, you know what?" A pause. "She never got friendly with anybody at Dwight. And Paris had a 3.8 average. She's very, very smart.… We left that school because we had a stalker," she says, now with some anger creeping into her voice. "That's why we decided to stay at the hotel"-the Waldorf Towers-"because the security's so good there. That's why we have the security we have, because, you know, she's an attractive girl being followed, being stalked, and I think when you're attractive and people recognize you and your picture comes out here and there -it was the most frightening thing I've ever gone through. It was so scary. He was a random guy that waited.
"And literally it started happening two months before school was out, and we did everything you could think of. It was her senior year, yep, she graduated with homeschooling. We pretended that we went here and there. We said, 'Oh, she went off there,' and the truth is, we spent some time in London, at the London Hilton. We brought the tutor with us.…
"We were getting really weird things in the mail, things are being sent to the corporate office, things are being sent to our old address in Los Angeles.… It was very, very scary, and Paris is a sweet kid.… It's just been awful, it's been awful." She sounds very upset. "You have no idea the security we have around. We never let people know what we have had to spend on security on top of the wonderful security the Waldorf has … O.K.?"
She sounds determined.
"We have people trailing everywhere the girls go. There is no way for one second that people are not trailing them and watching every single move they make. We know exactly who, what, where, when."
Now suddenly, again, she's talking about Leo.
"We got called by Inside Edition, or one of those crazy TV shows, on how he's been up to the apartment, and I said, 'Let me tell you something: my husband and I spend a fortune to know exactly what's going on, and I have never met this kid, I don't know him, he's never been up to the Waldorf Towers.' Nobody gets in my apartment that it's not written down, the time that you walked in, the time that you leave. We go though a drill like you have no idea, because I am so scared."
At the Southampton house, on the porch in the sun, we've finished eating Key-lime pie.
"It's just so nice," Kathy's saying, "because the girls didn't used to get along that well, and now they really love each other. They'll run up to each other's room and say, Oh, let me share that T-shirt or that hair gel-"
Paris and Nicky look at their mother.
"Hair gel?" says Nicky. And she laughs her arid laugh.
Kathy says, "You know, Nicky's at this point in life where she's embarrassed by everything. She looks at me like I'm crazy, she gets embarrassed."
"You embarrass me," says Nicky.
I mention that Nicky seemed very poised at the party at Saci the other night.
"Well, you know, I always raised them to be exposed, and to be a part of everything," Kathy says. "They'd come down in their pretty little pink dress with the ribbon and say good night."
Paris says in her baby voice, "I used to say, 'How is your sir?'"
Kathy and Nicky start laughing.
"Why are you guys always laughing at me?" says Paris, wounded.
"Did you hear what you just said?" says Nicky. "'How is your sir?'"
"I said that when I was, like, three years old!" says Paris.
"Honey, I love you, oooooh!" says Kathy, watching Paris pout. She adds, "Star just does what she wants."
Paris frowns. "I don't even care."
Nicky's still laughing.
"Mom told me I said that-I can't even remember it!" says Paris.
"Ooooh," says Kathy, still laughing.
"Mom," says Paris.
Paris tells me then that she has to pay her own parking tickets out of her allowance from her parents, while "some kids are like, 'Oh, I sent it to my grandparents' office.'"
"There's too much money given to these kids these days and it spoils 'em," says Kathy, "and some of these parents have big problems! And you know what? They wonder why. Whoever reads this is gonna know exactly what I'm talking about."
Everyone else goes inside to cue up a video of Paris as a baby, leaving Nicky and me on the porch.
"Are there videos of you too?" I ask.
"What kind of music do you like?"
She says, "Hole."
The two little Hilton boys, Conrad and Barron, come up to the table. They're blond like their sisters, tanned and red-lipped and slightly sweaty from running around barefoot in the sun.
"What do you think of your sisters?" I ask 10-year-old Barron.
"Mean," he says, picking at grapes.
"One is, one isn't," says Barron.
"Nicky's not mean," I say.
"Yes, she is," says Barron.
"Because on the phone," says Conrad, the six-year-old, "she said that Barron's lame."
"And she says bad words," Barron says.
Nicky's staring at the yard.
"And I saw her smoke once," says Conrad. "I saw you smoke in a picture."
"In a picture?" Nicky says absently.
Conrad says, "Yeah."
Nicky smiles. "O.K."
"She smokes," Barron confirms.
"Oh," I say, "I don't believe that."
"She does," Conrad says. "We saw her."
"And she says bad words," Barron says.
Conrad singsongs, "A lo-ot. And she says the h-word."
"What's the h-word?" I ask.
Conrad stage-whispers: "Hell."
Nicky says, "Go away."
Conrad shouts at her: "You said it."
"And she beats us up," Barron says.
Nicky says, "Oh!," and runs off the porch.
"She always does," says Conrad. "And she blackmailed Barron."
"What is blackmail?" I ask.
"Like when you say, I'll tell on you if you don't do something," says Conrad.
"Yeah, remember?" says Barron. "And she banged my head on the floor, and it hurt." His eyes are frank and wide.
"No, really?" I say. "That's not nice."
"I know," Barron says. "She always does stuff.… Would you put that in the magazine?"
Nicky returns, standing behind someone named Robert, a large black man who does security for the Hiltons.
"Come with me," he says to the youngsters.
They scamper away.
'Baby Paris!" Kathy, flowered hat still planted on her head, is clapping.
We're in the Hiltons' big red living room watching a grainy video of Paris toddling around in some ancient apartment of Rick and Kathy's on East 67th Street. Kathy has feathered hair. Rick is cooing.
Paris leans against an armchair, rocking back and forth on four-inch heels, amused, cat-eyed, watching her parents watching her on television.
"Isn't that a nice girl?" Rick baby-talks on-screen.
Next comes Kathy's on-screen voice: "Get me a flower off the bed, honey. Paris, can you get me a flower, please? I want the flower, a red flower."
Rick is holding the camera, and he murmurs, "She knows she's not supposed to touch it."
Nicky is in the back of the living room, watching Paris watching their parents watching her …
A darling girl, platinum blonde, face a perfect cameo of innocence. She's wearing pajamas, top open; she seems to have on mascara.
"A little mascara and a little eye shadow," says Kathy. "I was a kid."
They keep fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to find some favorite footage of Baby Paris in Central Park. "This was why we call her Star, 'cause she was the first baby," says Kathy.
But they can't find it.
Rick gives up and turns off the set.
Kathy is looking through a scrapbook. She seems to have hit on something important.
"Oh, here!" she says. "I found these for the girls."
They are publicity stills of a child actress, black-and-white photos from the 1960s.
"I thought these might be fun to look at," she says.
It's Kathy herself, at age eight, on the set of the television sitcom Family Affair, alongside Buffy, Jodie, and Mr. French.
"Remember Mr. French?" says Kathy, giggling.
Long before she was Kathy Hilton, Kathy was Kathy Richards, a child actress who played Buffy's friend. Her little sister, Kim, was the star.
"Kim Richards," says Kathy. "She did Escape from Witch Mountain. And Nanny and the Professor."
That night, Paris and Nicky go out clubbing together in Southampton. There's a party at Conscience Point for the rapper Jay-Z's Roc-A-Wear clothing line.
They arrive dressed like blonde Barbie twins, in blue and pink satin miniskirts (Patricia Field, Dolce & Gabbana), with gold belts slung low around their teenage hips. They're wearing blond ponytails and sweatbands. It's very "Let's Get Physical."
"You always want to have them at your party," says Noah Tepperberg, a young Manhattan party promoter. "They're two fabulous young girls-they're little divas, they know how to work a room."
"From L.A. to New York, I see you at every party," says Damon Dash, the head of Jay-Z's Roc-A-Fella record label. He gives Paris a kiss on the cheek at the front door.
"Are you twins?" says an attractive older lesbian, approaching.
Nicky makes a face.
Jay-Z doesn't show, but a selection of near celebrities do-David Charvet of Baywatch; Ted Field, the head of Interscope Records; Lulu Johnson, daughter of designer Betsy Johnson; and Shoshana Lonstein, the Jerry Seinfeld girlfriend turned clothing designer.
But Paris and Nicky are the ones being followed by a camera crew, the crew from the Guest List Only documentary, which has come all the way from L.A. for this. The camera light shines in the faces of anyone who crosses the Hilton sisters' path.
Paris and Nicky take the middle of the dance floor; the light is trained on the sisters. The hip-hop kids dance around them.
"Hip, hop, the hippee, the hippee to the hip hip hop-" Paris is winding her fist in the air, rapper-style, singing along with the Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight," like all the other kids.
The sisters are like skinny twin dancing bubble-gum Barbie-doll Marilyn Monroes, shaking it. The spotlight is on them. Nicky dances around Paris, Paris against Nicky. Noah Tepperberg comes out of nowhere and dances in between them, grinding against Nicky. Now he'll be in the documentary, too.
I ask Paris what she thinks I should say in the story about her.
"Just tell 'em I'm a teenager," she says, smiling. "Tell 'em I'm a normal kid."