Page 134 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

After we finished discussing the logistics of our trip to Florida, I left the office and headed to the library. I had no idea who Philip Johnson was, and I’d never heard of a “porta-co-share.”
In the limo on the way to the airport the following day, I told Donald that I’d arranged to meet Johnson at his home, which I’d learned at the library was the very famous Glass House that he, a very famous architect, had designed. I had also discovered that the thing Johnson had designed for the Taj—what Donald called a porta-co-share—was a porte cochere, basically a large carport. I understood why Donald had wanted Johnson to be involved in the project; he wasn’t just famous, he also traveled in the kind of circles Donald aspired to. I didn’t, however, understand why Johnson would bother designing the Taj’s carport. It was a very small-scale project that seemed not worth his while.
When Donald picked up a copy of the New York Post less than ten minutes into the car ride, I knew he had no intention of giving me information for the book. I’d begun to suspect that he’d hired me without consulting his publisher because he didn’t want to be micromanaged by the people there. It would also be a lot easier to put off his niece, who wasn’t under contract and was barely getting paid, than a professional writer, who would most likely have a significant stake in the success of the book. But we were about to be trapped together on a plane for two hours, so I hoped he might talk to me then.
When we got into the cabin of the jet that was waiting for us on the tarmac, Donald spread out his arms and asked, “So what do you think?”
“It’s great, Donald.” I knew the drill.
As soon as we reached cruising altitude and we could unbuckle our seat belts, one of his bodyguards handed him a huge stack of mail after setting a glass of Diet Coke next to him. I watched as he opened one envelope after another, then, after examining the contents for a few seconds, threw them and the envelope onto the floor. When a large pile accumulated, the same guy would reappear, pick up the wastepaper, and throw it into the garbage. That happened over and over again. I moved to another seat so I didn’t have to watch.
The staff were waiting as the car pulled up to the entrance at Mar-a-Lago. Donald went off with his butler, and I introduced myself to everybody else.