How I Met Ivana Trump

When I could no longer take the lies and deceit at my first Florida job (if you haven’t read about it, you can find Part One here and Part two here), I quit. I had already started a commercial cleaning business with two friends, but it was still early days, and we weren’t making enough money to support all three of us yet. So, I became a personal assistant for a Palm Beach author.

Joella was everything I thought I wanted to be. Tall and slender, a former model, everyone paid attention when she walked into a room. Her platinum blond hair was stacked on her head in a modern bouffant updo, and her skin glowed from a tan you only get from the sun. She always had freshly manicured nails, wore lots of turquoise jewelry, and the faint aroma of Chanel N° 5 lingered after she’d left.

She also had implants so large that I worried she might topple over if she wasn’t leaning against something.

The publisher of a high-end local magazine, we became friendly during my time at the ad agency and when she found out I was no longer working there, she got in touch and offered me a job as her personal assistant/publicist.

Joella had recently self-published a book called How to Figure Out a Woman, a compendium of female types that wouldn’t last five minutes today without being “cancelled.” My new part-time job was to assist her in whatever way she needed. I researched speaking opportunities, created a one-sheet for the book and her talk, and scheduled the engagements. I accompanied her, the lady-in-waiting to her queen, carrying boxes of books to sell after the event and kept track of all the contacts, dates, and times.

On one occasion, she booked a gig herself and we arrived in Miami to find she’d gotten the date wrong. She insisted we head to the bar of the hotel where she proceeded to down several vodka martinis. We sat in giant overstuffed chairs in luxurious surroundings, me feeling completely out of place, while she smoked a cigarette from a vintage Audrey Hepburn holder. Her husky voice and raucous merriment growing louder with each round.

Despite my protestations, she insisted she was fine to drive her new 1987 turbo-charged Camaro convertible back up Route 95 back to West Palm. We roared past cars, doing over eighty miles per hour, with the top down and the stereo blasting as we zigged and zagged through three lanes of traffic from Miami through Ft. Lauderdale and finally to the exit where I’d left my car.

That experience stripped the rose-colored tint from the lens through which I saw her before I began to work for her. But I needed the money, and it was familiar. She paid me every week in cash, so I convinced myself the devil I knew was better than the one I didn’t.

In addition to helping with publicity for the book, I also did the grocery shopping. Her preferred nutrition was a bottle of vodka, but she would send me off to Publix every week to get a few things. Stella Dora Almond Cookies. The occasional piece of fish. And coffee. Back then, Publix had more than a dozen Plexiglass bins filled with a variety of beans that could be mixed however you desired before taking them to the grinder where you could select anything from espresso fine to French press coarse.

Joella was very specific about her coffee blend.

Forty percent Columbian dark roast. Thirty percent vanilla. Twenty percent hazelnut. And ten percent of something I don’t recall. Medium grind. If I was even a smidgen off, her nose could tell and depending on her level of inebriation when I returned, the consequences ranged from a verbal lashing to laughter over my ineptness.

My life outside Joella was frenetic. Before I arrived at her apartment, I’d already cleaned a restaurant on the island and a Japanese steak house in Palm Beach Gardens and gone home to shower and change. After I put in my four hours with her, it was home to grab a bite and prepare for an evening at insurance offices and doctor’s practices to dust, vacuum and empty trash.

The weekends were packed with more offices and early morning calls at bars that needed their bathrooms scrubbed and their floors mopped before they opened. We sacrificed fun in the name of building something that would keep us from being pawns of “the man.” I was all in at 25 and found a way to get by on four hours of sleep a night.

It wasn’t unusual for me to show up at Joella’s to find her still in bed nursing a hangover. I’d let myself in with the key hidden under a terra cotta planter and start a pot of coffee. Then I’d take a glass of water and two Tylenol into her bedroom where she was sprawled on the bed wearing a white robe and an eye mask, her platinum hair splayed across a satin pillowcase.

After I woke her and announced it was 10 a.m., she’d stir and eventually sit up so I could hand her the water and pills. “Thank you, darling,” she’d say in a voice deep from cigarettes and exhaustion.

While she gathered herself, I’d sit behind the giant desk in the alcove. It was out of proportion for her small living space and she had no intention of getting rid of it. There I’d review the day’s schedule, make a to-do list – one for her and one for me, and sort through the pile of mail tossed onto the blotter after she stumbled in after an evening out.

Within a half hour, the clanging of cups and dishes let me know she was rummaging for fruit and coffee, which she took back to her bedroom. She didn’t typically “show up” for work until well after 11 and by then, I had the rest of her day organized.

How easily I got absorbed into her normal.

While going through the envelopes and postcards one morning, I saw an invitation to a fundraiser for the United Way, an art show at The Breakers. Hosted by Ivana Trump. The Breakers Hotel was, and still is, a Palm Beach legend. But in the 80s, with my meager earnings and possessions, it was the Holy Grail. The idea of spending time there with Its decadent furnishings, iconic chandeliers, and stunning ocean-front views – all images I’d only seen in magazines – made me feel rich.

Plus, anyone who was anybody hung out at the Breakers. From wealthy Palm Beachers and fancy lawyers to celebrities and corporate billionaires, it was the place to be to play golf or for an after-work cocktail. For a girl from Pittsburgh in her mid-20s, the glamour and glitz were seductive.

I casually mentioned the invitation to Joella and always one to play the game, she asked me to accompany her to carry business cards and a bag containing copies of her book. This would make her look more important, richer, and higher up on the food chain than she actually was. No one needed to know she rented an apartment on the island so she could claim the zip code.

I had nothing appropriate to wear and Joella insisted on taking me shopping to get a dress, the cost of which she deducted from my next pay. Even then, I knew the dress was for her not me. She would never risk anyone thinking less of someone she was with, even if it was only an employee.

That evening, we drove down the long brick driveway to the cul-de-sac where she tossed the keys for the Camaro to the valet with a throaty laugh. Inside was pure decadence, the kind I hadn’t seen since visiting Versailles on a trip I took in high school.

I don’t remember a lot of specifics, other than the enormous, vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass doors that overlooked the ocean, but I remember thinking, this is what it’s like to be rich.

Inside the ballroom, paintings by well-known local artists hung on every inch of the perimeter. Hundreds of people milled about enjoying hors d’ oeuvres and cocktails. Joella and I made our way through the room, past museum-level artwork under which sat podiums with bidding sheets. We stopped now and then to talk to someone she knew, and I laughed or stayed silent at the appropriate times. When we finally reached the other end, I saw her.

Ivana Trump.

This was shortly after they’d moved into Mar a Lago but before her then-husband had anywhere near the notoriety he has today. And before she’d been emotionally battered by his affairs. Not yet forty, she stood by herself in a white Chanel suit, pearls in her ears and around her neck and an enormous diamond on her ring finger. Her long blond hair was shiny, and her lips were the perfect pink. Despite her stature, there was a slight air of innocence and authentic appreciation for those in attendance.

I didn’t know much about her then, but being in her presence was the first time I ever felt the power that comes from being that wealthy. At least that’s how my younger self remembers it. I shook her hand, and she thanked me for coming, even though I suspect she knew I had no money to bid on even the smallest painting.

I was enamored of it all at my young age. She and her husband were the talk of the town, both on Palm Beach and in New York City. In my naivete and poverty, she was an inspiration, and I won’t ever forget her kindness and grace.

That night, I met one of the artists, a Frenchman who was much older than I. After Joella identified her conquest for the evening, he and I chatted over a glass of Champagne in chairs that looked out over the ocean. Then we went to his place for wine and etchings. But that’s another story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you enjoy The Mosaic Platypus! Sharing stories knowing they have the power to spark memories and nurture healing is a piece of how I do my part in this world - pay my bills, donate to worthy folks in hard situations and honor my role as a link in the chain of evolution.

The capitalistic strategy of subscription levels - you can see “this” if you pay to subscribe, otherwise you only can read “that” felt icky. I want to share this writing in the most inclusive way so all of what I write and do with the podcast-lette is available to everyone regardless of whether you pay.

If you’d like to support what I do, there are opportunities to be a part of it by purchasing a paid subscription to The Mosaic Platypus for only $5/month or making a contribution through Buy Me A Coffee. Have a great weekend!