Trump Tower (44 page)

In Paris in 1986, Pierre Belasco's wife, Camille, and infant son, Christian, had been killed in a car accident.

T
hree hundred handpicked guests had received the beautifully printed invitation that read, “Bill Clinton cordially requests the honor of your company for cocktails and finger food on the Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in aid of the Clinton Foundation initiative, ‘New York Loves Haiti.'”

Dress was “smart casual,” and the time was indicated as 6 to 9 p.m. In the corner of the invitation it said RSVP and warned “admission strictly by invitation.” Underneath that was written, “Donations Beginning at $25,000.”

For Alicia and Carson, this created a minor problem because she couldn't figure out if it meant twenty-five grand per couple or per person. Carson argued that because the invitation was addressed to Mr. and Mrs., it was twenty-five grand per couple. But Alicia decided that, because this was Bill, they really should err on the side of caution. She told Carson that he needed to write a check from their charity account to the Clinton Foundation for $50,000.

He did.

That same night, Cyndi phoned to say she'd been invited and presumed Alicia and Carson had been as well. Alicia said yes, then explained her dilemma about the donation.

Cyndi said, “Well, if you guys are in for fifty, I'll write a check . . . hold on . . .” She went to get her checkbook and, when she had it, she came back on the phone to say she was writing it now to the Clinton Foundation for $49,999.

Alicia asked, “What are you talking about?”

Cyndi reminded her, “You guys are paying fifty.”

“So?”

“So,” Cyndi said, “I shouldn't have to pay as much as you because I eat less.”

T
HE
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EW
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ORK
Police Department had roped off traffic along Fifth Avenue from Eighty-Fourth Street to Eightieth Street in front of the museum and set up a perimeter behind it, too. No one could get close to the building, except on foot.

Then, before any of the guests could enter the building, they had to show their invitations, wait while their names were checked off the official list, and pass through security machines.

Alicia, Cyndi and Carson arrived at the museum's steps—shuttled there from the designated drop-off point at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Eightieth Street in golf carts decorated with NY (Heart) Haiti signs, and escorted by musicians up and down the block, playing traditional Haitian méringue—only to find a long line waiting to go through security.

Photographers were everywhere, snapping photos, and television news crews were all over the steps, too. They rushed to photograph Cyndi and Alicia, with Carson standing proudly in the middle, then just as quickly abandoned them when the next golf cart arrived, this time with Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith.

Behind the Smiths were Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi.

Behind them was James Gandolfini, sharing a golf cart with Hugh Jackman and his wife.

Steve Buscemi and his wife were near the front of the line, and so was Sienna Miller, who was deep in conversation with Barbara Walters.

For the press, it was a feeding frenzy.

Meagan O'Donnell spotted Alicia and wanted her to do a piece to camera, but Alicia sidestepped the interview by saying, “You don't want me, you want Liza Minnelli,” who happened to be standing twenty yards away talking to Bette Midler.

Jimmy Fallon and Meredith Vieira were waiting to get in, and so was the rap singer 50 Cent. Not far away Matt Lauer was talking to Charlie Rose, who was on line in front of Jerry Stiller and his wife, Anne Meara.

Behind them was the legendary black soul singer Monserrat Madyson. And when she spotted Cyndi, Monserrat put her hands on her hips, shook her head, and called out loud enough for everybody to hear, “Honey, you are too damn beautiful. You ruin it for the rest of us. Girl . . . look at you . . . damn . . . don't you ever eat?”

That wound up being the teaser into the Clinton party segment the next morning on
Good Morning America
.

Once guests got inside the museum, police officers and museum officials guided them to elevators that took them up to the roof garden, where their names were checked a second time.

And, for the second time, everyone had to go through security.

But as soon as they stepped outside, five floors above the treetops, the city of New York at dusk surrounded them.

There was Harlem beyond the park to the north, and midtown below the park to the south, the elegance of Fifth Avenue apartments staring back at them on the eastside, and the towered silhouettes of stately buildings lining Central Park to the west.

A band was playing Haitian minijazz on the far side of the roof, while waiters and waitresses in white dinner jackets circulated everywhere, carrying drinks and platters with fifty different types of hors d'oeuvres.

Everything was prepared right there, in a special outdoor kitchen constructed under the trellis, where a dozen toque-headed cooks moved frantically back and forth to the commands of Micelo Sydney, the Haitian-born, French-trained chef whose restaurant, Cap-Haïtien, a few blocks away on Madison Avenue, had recently won a second Michelin star.

The air smelled of lime and grilled fish and French perfume.

Alicia went to check on her crew for the interview, while Carson and Cyndi wound their way through the crowd and found David and Tina. They chatted until Alicia came back, and a few minutes after that, Bill Clinton—who can work a room better than anybody else on the planet—sidled up to them to say hello.

“We watch you every night at six,” Bill told Alicia. “And Hillary thinks you're the best.”

“Don't
you
?” Carson challenged him.

He put his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” and whispered, “I do.”

Now he turned to Cyndi. “When Chelsea was growing up . . . one Christmas . . . this must have been just after we left the White House, she wanted some of your perfume. She said it's called À Poil. Well, I knew what À Poil means, and there was no way . . .”

“Wanna know a secret?” Cyndi leaned close to him. “Chelsea knew, too.”

He roared with laughter.

Turning to David and Tina, Bill told her, “You're much too beautiful and much too smart for a fellow like David.”

“There's truth in humor,” she said flatly, then forced a smile so that everyone would think she was joking.

“And from what I hear,” Clinton said to David, “you're still not telling the truth about your handicap.”

“What . . . y'all do?” David asked.

He smiled broadly. “Knowing what we know about each other's game, let's play sometime soon.”

“I can't afford you,” David protested. “A couple of strokes, maybe. But last time, you claimed to be a twenty-two, except y'all play to thirteen.”

“I had to say that,” Bill insisted, “‘cause you claimed to be a nine when I know you-all play scratch.”

“Trump plays to two, but he gives me four.”

“Yeah, well,” Bill took Cyndi's arm and wrapped it in his, “if The Donald ever becomes president, he'll claim to play to fifteen. It's what we do.”

Now, with Cyndi on his arm, the former president headed for Robert De Niro and Julia Roberts, who were talking to Zeke Gimbel.

“Tell me something,” Cyndi said before they joined that group. “Do you ever sign text messages George?”

He gave her an odd look. “No. Why?”

She shrugged, “I live in hope.”

All over the roof garden, women in Gucci, Chanel, Dior and Valentino were drinking mango champagne cocktails.

And men in Armani, Zegna, Paul Smith and Prada—and several in designer jeans, a T-shirt, blue blazers, and sockless in Ferragamo loafers—were asking waiters in evening clothes, “What's that?” and when they were told, “
pikliz griot
” and “
tasot cabrit
” and “
poul fri
” and “
banan peze
,” they took a chance, lifted whatever it was off the silver platter, and popped it into their mouths.

Steven Spielberg and his wife were talking to Stevie Wonder and Kathleen Turner, while Nicole Kidman and Cameron Diaz were listening to Antoine de Maisonneuve tell them about the museum's dress collection. “They have a 1935 Chanel evening ensemble that is to die for, and if you don't see anything else, there's a bright red Halston gown from the late 1970s . . . darlings, even I would wear that.”

Matt Damon was trying to taste whatever it was that Halle Berry was eating, while Jennifer Hudson was describing her favorite restaurant in Miami to Mary J. Blige.

Jennifer Lopez was talking to Juliana Margulies, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg was laughing with Yoko Ono, while Bono was pointing across the park to some towers on the top of an apartment building along Central Park West, telling Kelly Ripa and Coldplay's Chris Martin, “I'm right there.”

The evening was still young when people started clinking their glasses for quiet and cleared a space in the middle of the roof for Bill Clinton, microphone in hand, to make a little speech.

Working in the round like the seasoned performer that he is, Clinton told his guests that he was very grateful for everything they were doing for Haiti, but reminded them that people were still dying there.

“It doesn't end when you write a big check and drink some champagne,” he said. “It won't end till the dying stops and the schools are open and the hospitals are open and the water is clean and the tent cities are turned into homes and hundreds of thousands of lives are rebuilt. It won't end if you leave here tonight and think, now I've done my part.”

He spoke for nearly ten minutes, off the cuff and with great passion, and when he was finished, everyone on the roof applauded him for nearly as long as he'd spoken.

That's when Alicia's segment producer found her to say it was time.

Together, they stole the former president away from the crowd and went to the corner of the roof where NBC had set up two cameras, lit two stools, and angled them with the lights of midtown Manhattan glistening behind them.

Alicia and Bill sat down. A makeup woman briefly stood in front of them and offered a light dusting of powder. The segment producer briefed Alicia one final time, and the cameras started rolling.

She said to Bill, “Start with the misery that you still see in Haiti after all this time.”

And Bill was off and running.

Some people stood around and watched. Others went back to air-kissing hello, the finger food and the drinks. And all over the roof you could hear guests asking waiters, “What is it?” And after they were told and still didn't know, they tasted it. And all over the roof you could hear guests saying, “Wow, this is great . . . but what is it?”

Tom Hanks was talking to Derek Jeter when Michael J. Fox and his wife, Tracy Pollan, walked by. Jeter reached out for him and hugged him, and when Alex Rodriguez saw that, he came over to hug Fox, too.

Yankee center-fielder Roberto “El Espíritu” Santos—the ball player they called the Holy Ghost—was standing nearby, alone, taking it all in.

Zeke now wandered over to where Carson was standing, watching Alicia, and asked him, “How did things work out when you were signed with Sovereign Shields?”

Carson was surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“We're buying the agency and I saw your name on the client list from . . . ten years ago?”

“They sent me out one time for a shaving commercial. But I never even got to the soapy-face test. Sponsor took one look at me and decided I was wrong.”

“Who represents Alicia?”

“William Morris Endeavor.”

“Any chance we can steal her away?”

“How well do you know Ari Emmanuel?” Carson asked, referring to the man running the agency.

“Very well.”

“Then you know there's not a prayer in the world.”

Zeke smiled. “Can't blame a guy for trying,” patted Carson's arm, and walked away to speak to Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin, who were describing an outtake from
30 Rock
to Anderson Cooper.

Carson drifted off to the side of the roof and looked around at the city. He did a three-sixty, then looked at Trump Tower and tried to count the floors to find their apartment. He thought he could see the gym—because from the gym he could certainly see the museum—then turned to find himself standing next to a tall, slim, young woman with deep green eyes and long, dark hair.

He smiled.

“
Bonsoir
,” she said.

“Oh . . . okay . . .
bonsoir
.”

She introduced herself in English, with a heavy French accent, “I am Amelie Laure Moreau. And who are you?”

He said, “I'm Carson Haynes. Nice to meet you.”

She nodded, “Likewise,” then asked, “And who are you here with?”