I gave him my number and he wrote it down on the Harrah’s notepad next to the bed. Keith already has my number, you dipshit, I thought. But sure, here.
I got up to find the dress that had been my favorite, and sat back down on the bed, hurriedly putting on my heels. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked. He said he would be at a nightclub that was in my hotel and asked me to meet him there and bring a signed copy of what I thought was the best movie I had directed. Back then it was 3 Wishes, which had just come out that May. Maybe he sensed my lack of interest in him, because he quickly added, “We need to see each other soon because we have business to discuss. We have to talk about getting you on The Apprentice.”
That’s how the Apprentice thing became bait. I didn’t want to have sex with him ever again, but he had convinced me that being on the show was at least a possibility. And he used that.
Before we leave this scene, I would like to note that it wasn’t until very recently that I learned that Karen McDougal says she was having an affair with Trump and had sex with him in Lake Tahoe that weekend. Karen McDougal is the former Playboy Playmate whom he met in June 2006. She later sold exclusive rights to her story to American Media, Inc., the publisher of the National Enquirer, which never ran an article about the affair. I am not disputing any part of Karen’s story, but I have been asked if I saw any signs of another woman being at his hotel. I can only say there were no signs whatsoever that there had been a woman there. I don’t know if he threw her shit in the closet or if he had a few rooms going, but I didn’t smell a woman. There were no tampons, no makeup wipes, and I can tell you that I know Karen McDougal was not using Old Spice and Pert Plus.
I humored him and hung around for at most ten more minutes, but all of his questions about seeing me again made me claustrophobic. “When are you coming to New York?” he asked as I put my gold dress back on—the one that used to be my favorite. “I need to see you tomorrow,” he said.
I promised he would, and I let myself out. Keith was no longer guarding the doors. I pushed the down button on the elevator, finally letting out the sigh I’d been holding in.
FOUR
You know that moment when you’re watching a horror movie and the girl thinks she can go back into the house and get her cat or whatever? And you just shake your head because you know exactly where this is going?
Well, for me “the cat” was getting on The Apprentice. So, come along with me as we go back into the house.
I got a call from Keith Schiller the day after Trump and I met up. “Mr. Trump would like to see you tonight.” He was going to be in the nightclub downstairs in my hotel. When I went down, Keith met me in the lobby.
“I’ll take you to the table,” he said. The club had a very Vegas vibe, with a lot of booths and a dance floor in the back. Keith led me through to the VIP area, which was very dark. There was a long couch, and Trump was sitting in a corner with Ben Roethlisberger. Shortly before his twenty-fourth birthday, “Big Ben” had become the youngest quarterback to win the Super Bowl, leading the Pittsburgh Steelers to the win in Detroit that February.
They were in mid-conversation, but Trump stopped and smiled at me. He made a kissy face like an invitation, and I just nodded. I sat next to Ben, who introduced himself.
“I was in Detroit when you won the Super Bowl,” I told him.
“Oh, you went to the game?” he asked. He leaned in to hear me over the DJ’s cheesy pop.
“No, I was dancing,” I said. “I was feature dancing at a place.”
“Oh, where?” he asked, his face breaking into a wide smile.
“The Coliseum.”
“Oh, I know that place,” he said. “It’s really nice.”
Trump started talking to Ben and it seemed to be private, so I just looked around. Ben was drinking as Trump droned on. I don’t drink, so I didn’t have a cocktail to occupy me, and this was obviously before we all became phone zombies. My eyes wandered around the room, which seemed to be full of aging frat boys in town for the golf tournament. Keith was standing guard, and Ben had a guy, too. He was so much smaller than Ben that it seemed comical to me that this six-foot-five professional football player would need him.
I jumped in when there was a break in Trump’s monologue. “Where’s your ring?” I asked Ben. I meant his Super Bowl ring.
“Oh, when I go out I don’t want to draw attention,” he said, “so I have my guy hold my jewelry.” I found it extra funny that this guy had all this jewelry belonging to Ben Roethlisberger in his pocket.
“Do you want to try it on?” Ben asked. He called his guy over, and two of my fingers fit in Ben’s Super Bowl ring.
“It looks good on you,” he said. “Do you come to Pittsburgh a lot?”
“Yeah, I’m actually going to be there in a couple of months dancing at a place called Blush.”
“Oh, that place is kind of weird,” he said. “You should take my number.” I wondered what he considered “weird” and what he thought he was going to protect me from at a strip club. He gave me his number and I put it in my phone.
“Is this your real number or your ho phone?” I asked as I typed.
Trump and Ben both laughed, and Ben recited a second number.
“I’m not gonna call you on your ho phone,” I said.
Trump grabbed Ben’s shoulder and leaned in. “I told you she was smart,” he said. “What did I tell you about this one?”
Yeah, what did he tell Ben about me? I wondered.
We were there an hour, tops, when Trump said he had some phone calls to make, some sort of business. He got up to leave and asked me again to let him know when I was in New York.
“Wouldn’t she be great on the show?” Trump said to Ben, and then to me: “We need to talk about The Apprentice.”
“That would be great,” I said.
He paused and bent to talk closer to my ear. “Hey, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go upstairs unescorted,” he said. He was right; it was late and people were drunk and things happen in hotels. “Also,” he added, “I shouldn’t really be seen with you.” Which was also true, because we couldn’t just walk through the lobby together and then go up in the elevator to my room. There wasn’t even a hint that he was going for Round Two.
“Is it okay,” he asked, “if I have Ben walk you to your room?”
I paused before answering. Why wouldn’t he just have Keith walk me? He’s literally a bodyguard.
“Do you mind?” he asked again.
As I have looked back at this in recent years—being older and wiser and less naïve—I still can’t really figure out this situation. I don’t want to imply it’s something that it’s not, but I also don’t want to sound like an idiot.
“Okay, yeah,” I said.
We stayed about fifteen more minutes, and Ben took me up the elevator to my floor, leaving his guy downstairs. Standing next to me, he seemed so much bigger than down in the bar—over a foot taller than me.
“Thank you,” I said, getting out of the elevator.
He didn’t say anything and just continued to walk with me. I looked up at him. His brow was tightly knit, and his eyes seemed predatory. As I went down the corridor with Ben, all of my intuition alarms went off. The voice that goes, This guy’s not getting a private dance. Don’t go in a VIP room with this man. This is what I felt.