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By Marc Peyser
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You can learn the most interesting things at a backyard barbecue, at least when the backyard belongs to the Hilton family. For instance, the fact that Paris eats like a horse: a turkey sandwich, sausage, pasta and a bowl of Fruity Pebbles for dessert. Or that the Hiltons have miniature dogs everywhere, including one in a blue sailor suit (the famous Tinkerbell), one in a bee costume (Paris's new dog, Bambi) and one named Bo who dares to go bare. "My dogs don't wear dresses," says Nicky with magnificent disdain. It turns out that the family is just as amused as the rest of the world that Paris is marrying a guy named Paris. "It's going to be confusing," says her father, Rick, "so we call him Mr. Paris." But perhaps the biggest surprise comes when Paris's mother says proudly that her daughters still call in before they go to sleep. We know what you're thinking: right. But it could well be true. Consider: what was the most amazing thing about the Paris sex tape? That she was talking on the phone.
And we know what else you're thinking: Paris Hilton has a mother? Yes, she does, and you'll meet her soon enough. Kathy Hilton is the host of the new NBC reality show called "I Want to Be a Hilton" (debuting June 21), in which she plays a Southampton Pygmalion who coaches 14 rubes, hicks and homegirls in taste and etiquette. It's hardly surprising that Paris's parents (Rick is an executive producer of the show) are cashing in--if Ashlee Simpson can get a reality show, the sky's the limit. What's truly surprising is that, in person, the Hiltons don't act like desperate, narcissistic, media-hungry reality-show wanna-bes. Really. When Bo pees on the floor--maybe he's mad about not getting to play dress-up?--Nicky quietly gets some paper towels and mops it up. No carrying on the way folks do on "The Osbournes." The Hiltons actually fought with NBC about the show's title--because they didn't want their name in it. "We thought it was too cheeky," says Rick. "It does sound a little obnoxious." Could it be that the real Hiltons aren't obnoxious enough for television?
We'll see about that. On a cool Saturday in Los Angeles, Kathy and Rick greet a reporter/luncheon guest. Kathy is wearing jeans, a striped shirt, a white visor and impeccable makeup; Rick's in khakis and a golf shirt. They look like a well-preserved prom king and queen. The Hiltons' home in Bel Air has the requisite swimming pool, tennis court and guesthouse, and two large security guards parked out front. They moved here last year--they'd spent the last decade in New York, living in a little family-owned hotel called the Waldorf-Astoria. The decor is country French--chintz and damask, with wood paneling and floors, and a fire burning in the family-room fireplace. Rick eagerly conducts a tour. "Oh, Rick," says Kathy, "the downstairs is fine, but the upstairs?" In fact, the upstairs is perfectly neat, though Rick and Kathy's collection of extra-large dolls, propped up on their bedroom floor, is a little strange. Even stranger are some of the photos in the family room. Rick and Kathy with Andy Warhol? Baby Paris with Nancy Reagan? One perk of being a Hilton: when celebrities stayed at the Waldorf, the family got to pose with them.
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After the tour and a quick shopping trip--Kathy drives, in a black Mercedes--we all hang out in the kitchen preparing lunch. The two Hispanic women who help call Kathy "Mrs.," but she's making the meal, with Rick working the grill outside. Nicky arrives, wearing a flowing black and white skirt and black T shirt that she designed for her Chick fashion line. A few minutes later Paris enters with her canine retinue, kisses her family hello and, like kids everywhere, raids the refrigerator. "I'll be cooking an unreal meal," Kathy says, "and this one comes in and makes a damn turkey sandwich." Paris whines back, "I'm so hungry."
Like the rest of the Hiltons, Paris turns out to be nothing like what you'd expect. She's wearing a slinky, turquoise Marc Jacobs dress, matching turquoise shoes, but almost no makeup. She doesn't say "That's hot!" once the whole day. Nor does she speak like a breathy baby doll. "I think maybe when I was younger, I thought it was cute to play the dumb blonde," she says. "On TV, I do it because it's funny. I consider myself a businesswoman and a brand." It's hard to say if she's actually thoughtful; she does spend a lot of time talking on her cell phone to her stylist.
But when she's discussing her endless business ventures--Paris Hilton perfume, jewelry, nightclubs and dog accessories, not to mention her movie career--her inner airhead gives way to a voice that's much slower, deeper and (dare we say?) serious. Tell her she's a lot smarter than the woman who once wondered if Wal-Mart was a place to buy walls, and she'll look you straight in the eye and say, "I know exactly what I'm doing." She's certainly managed to turn herself into an icon and a conglomerate for essentially being a party girl--that is, for doing nothing. And she's planning to give up her public life in two years, by which time she expects to become a mother with fiance Paris Latsis. "I don't enjoy going out anymore," she says. "It's a pain. It's everyone saying, 'Let's do a deal! Can I have a picture?' I'm just, like, 'These people are such losers. I can't believe I used to love doing this'."
We sit down to lunch in the airy dining room and the ever-hungry Paris nibbles on Nicky's hamburger. ("Paris, why did you just do that?" says Nicky. "I don't even want it because you touched it!") The conversation turns to the dark side of the spotlight. Not everyone would want to be a Hilton, what with recent scandals over the girls' difficult boyfriends, the guy who hacked into Paris's Sidekick and, of course, Paris's homemade sex tape. "Well, that was very painful. Very painful. Very painful," says the ever-protective Kathy. "But it taught me that I really can't trust everybody." So perhaps it's not surprising that the Hiltons are keeping their sons, Barron, 15, and Conrad, 11, out of the public eye. "We haven't done anything bad," says Nicky. "But I do worry about how it affects my little brothers."
All of which makes you wonder why Kathy and Rick signed on for "I Want to Be a Hilton." They've resisted such overtures in the past. "The minute the Osbourne thing came out," says Kathy, "everybody started calling us wanting to do something with the family and we said, 'No, no, no'." One possible explanation: Kathy was a child actress--as was her sister, Kim Richards, one of the kids on "Nanny and the Professor"--and performing seems to be in her blood. Not to mention the actors on the Hilton side, including Zsa Zsa Gabor, who married Paris's great-grandfather, and Elizabeth Taylor, who married her great uncle.
Another possibility: the Hiltons need--the money. Despite whatever trust funds they may have, Rick isn't on the family payroll--when he's in New York, he stays at the St. Regis, not at a Hilton. His day job is developing and selling real estate; he recently sold Cliff Robertson's $19 million house in La Jolla. "My father, like his father, always felt that the children should make their own way in life," Rick says. "We really have been taught to row our own boats." Won't the contestants who "want to be a Hilton" be thrilled to hear that.
After lunch, we get a taste of what it's really like to be a Hilton. The family piles into two cars--the kids in Paris's black SUV and the adults in the black Benz--for a trip to Kitson, a trendy L.A. store that carries Nicky's clothing and Paris's jewelry. As we pull out of the driveway, two or three cars of paparazzi tail the girls all the way to the store. By the time Kathy and Rick arrive five minutes later, there are 30 photographers swarming outside like drones after the queen bee. Inside, the chaos is more controlled. Kathy, Paris and Nicky all don the necessary protective gear--sunglasses and cell phones--but the girls graciously sign autographs while they inspect their merchandise. ("If it's not displayed well, I get angry," says Nicky.) At one point, Lindsay Lohan appears, very blond and very skinny, and Paris and Nicky go over to chat. After about 20 minutes, we escape down the street to a shoe store, momentarily giving the photographers the slip. We head back to our cars and drive away--but wait. The paparazzi are driving backward at top speed down the middle of the street and catch up with the girls' car. Within minutes, Kathy's phone rings. It's Nicky. "I want you to drive very, very slowly," Kathy tells her. "I love you. Keep your seat belt on." And don't forget to call before bedtime.
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