by Ivana Trump
I woke up the next day to headlines that claimed I fled the inauguration to avoid an awkward run-in with Marla freaking Maples at the party that night. I didn’t even know she was there! It was ridiculous. I’d been invited to the inaugural parties, but after the horrible afternoon, I wasn’t in the mood. The prospect of standing around a Washington, DC, ballroom and schmoozing politicians held zero appeal. I would have liked to see my children, but getting my mother home was more important.
That said, I’m glad I didn’t see Marla that day, or any other day since our two-minute confrontation in 1989 in Aspen.
Melania Trump: I have no problems with her at all. Why should I? She didn’t break up my marriage. Her son, Barron, eleven, plays often with my grandchildren. Donald is happy with her and our interactions have been cordial. We hit a minor speed bump in the fall of 2015, when Donald was on the road to the White House. I was having lunch for forty female friends in New York and I asked, “Who is voting for Donald?” That started a conversation about what a Trump presidency would be like, and all I said was that Melania is a quiet, private woman, and that she might not enjoy being in public so much. The next thing I knew, the Daily News was running an article quoting an “insider” who claimed I said, “[Melania] can’t talk, she can’t give a speech, she doesn’t go to events, she doesn’t seem to want to be involved.”
Ivanka called me that day and said Melania was upset about the article. I hadn’t even heard about it yet, and told my daughter I didn’t say those things and that the paper never called to ask me to comment. I texted Melania, saying, “You have never done anything wrong to me and I never have to you. You are in the family and I would never do anything against the family. Love, Ivana.” That smoothed things over. I hope she knows I’m rooting for her, just as I’m rooting for Donald. I believe he’ll be a great president and that she’ll surprise a lot of people and be a wonderful First Lady. She surprised me already when she announced she was taking over Michelle Obama’s organic garden. Somehow, I can’t picture her in jeans and work gloves, holding a shovel.
Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be in Melania’s Louboutins right now. Back in the eighties, Ronald Reagan sent Donald a letter asking him to run for president, and I thought it was a great idea. But then the scandal happened and the press hated him, so a run was out. I believe in always looking to the future and never asking, “What if?” But in this one case, if the affair had never happened and Donald had run in ’92 and won, I’d have whipped the White House staff into shape in ten days.
On the other hand, I would hate to be in the world of politics. The nature of it seems to be all talking and lying, making false promises, and then nothing gets done. Donald is trying to change that, but I’m not interested in bashing my head into a brick wall. Growing up, I distrusted and feared politicians and the police. No, I don’t want anything to do with Washington, which is a crooked, boring city. What do people do for fun at the White House? Throw bowling balls in the basement with security guards watching your every move. Forget it. I’d rather have my freedom and be a secret adviser to Donald from the comfort of my town house, should he call.
PART FIVE
PRIDE OF THE LION MOM
-19-
THE VALUE OF A DOLLAR
I am a bottom-line person. The bottom line about cash and kids? When they’re very young, you have to teach them that money doesn’t fall off trees or they’ll turn into rotten, entitled brats. Although my children certainly went on lavish vacations and had more objects than the average family, compared to others at our income level, they had significantly less.
I lived well and enjoyed my luxuries, but the kids understood that I’d earned them through hard work. What I shared with them didn’t belong to them. I have heard rich kids—like the ones in Jamie Johnson’s documentary Born Rich, which Ivanka appeared in—talk about their parents’ houses and cars as if they were the kids’ own possessions. My children never had such a foolish misconception. My Ferrari was mine. My yacht was mine. I even named it M.Y. Ivana. Of course, they could and did cruise with me whenever they liked, but they didn’t have a sense of ownership of it. (No one, not even my precious children, was allowed to put one big toe in the Ferrari.)
Back in the nineties and aughts, when Don, Ivanka, and Eric were growing up, the scions of the superrich and famous were tracked by Page Six and Vanity Fair on their jaunts to Ibiza, nightclub benders in Las Vegas, shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive, tantrums in first class. They embarrassed their families and disgraced themselves in drunken, drugged-out, compromising situations. What made the mortification possible? Their parents’ open wallets and platinum credit cards.
What idiot would give a high school kid a monthly allowance of $10,000 and expect that to go well? Kim Kardashian’s father gave her a Mercedes for her Sweet Sixteen. Did he think that would keep her close to home and out of trouble? A pair of famous sisters around Ivanka’s age apparently had an unlimited clothing budget, flew in a private jet wherever and whenever they liked, and were mainstays at Studio 54 and Limelight in tenth grade. I wonder if they even went to class, took a test, or picked up a book, ever.
When my kids were at school, I gave them a modest allowance for everything besides tuition and housing: clothes, food, school supplies, fun. They didn’t need more than what I gave them and could have survived on far less. If they wanted to take a friend for pizza or a burger, they could afford it, but it wasn’t nearly enough to hop on an airplane and party in a suite at the Bellagio.
The idea of giving a teenager his or her own credit card was absurd to me. Don, Ivanka, and Eric were never handed Visas or Amexes by me. When they were in New York and needed to go shopping for essentials, I would give them the cash I deemed appropriate.
“What about in case of an emergency?” Ivanka once asked when she wanted a card of her own.
“In case of an emergency, call me,” I replied.
When Don went to boarding school in Pennsylvania, I wanted to make sure he called his grandmother and me regularly to check in, so I gave him a phone card. It worked out well for a year or two. And then one day, the bill arrived and it was four times the usual amount. I knew he hadn’t talked to me for hundreds of minutes that month. It turned out, fifteen-year-old Don had been burning up the phone lines talking to a girl. I was happy he had a special friend (shocked, but glad). However, I wasn’t going to finance his long-distance romance. “If you want to call me or your grandmother, I’ll pay for it,” I said. “But if you want to chat with your girlfriend, do it on your own dime.”
Occasionally, the kids lobbied me for cash to buy medium-ticket items, like a new handbag or pair of skis. The rule was that they had to convince me that the expense was absolutely necessary. If Eric asked for a new bike, I’d ask, “What’s wrong with the old one?” If he made a legitimate case that his old bike was terrible and that he could not function until he got a new one, I’d praise his negotiating skills and say, “Okay, sweetie. You can have a new bike . . . at Christmas.”
If Eric then asked his father, “Daddy, can I have a new bike?” Donald would ask, “What did your mother say? If she said no, she had a reason.”
Donald and I agreed that kids and cash don’t mix. But, as we told them, if they earned the money themselves, they had every right to spend it however they wanted—as long as it wasn’t on drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes. The kids begged me for odd jobs to earn some extra cash. Don cut grass with a lawn mower in Greenwich for an entire summer to buy himself a new fly-fishing rod, even though the old one was just as good. In the long run, he might’ve wished he’d saved that money for something else. If they were old enough to make their own money, they were free to make their own mistakes about spending it. They learned as teenagers how to make long-term, smart purchasing decisions.
* * *
ERIC
One of the reasons I started working at twelve on construction sites was to earn money to buy things for myself. Others kids from wealthy families, people we knew,
were given unlimited funds, ridiculous allowances, and cars. They would go out, spend a fortune, and get in trouble. The thought of me busting my chops breaking down walls, doing the toughest kind of manual labor at construction sites for minimum wage with a great team of men, and then going out at the end of the week and blowing my paycheck on booze or drugs? That is not how I was raised. You never saw Don, Ivanka, or me really getting into trouble. To this day, we are always the first people in the office in the morning and the last people to leave. We were conditioned to connect hard work with self-respect and a feeling of accomplishment. It’s where our drive comes from.
* * *
Whenever I took the kids to Saint-Tropez or St. Moritz for vacations, they flew economy while I was in first class. I’d say, “Have a good flight. I’ll see you when we land.” They were small and could curl up in the seats and sleep. They’d wake up in France or Switzerland and have croissants. What did they have to complain about? Ivanka once tried to talk me into giving her an upgrade. I heard her out and then said, “As soon as you can pay for the upgrade yourself, you can have it.” During Donald’s presidential campaign, Ivanka was flying JetBlue with her kids to Florida, and, while boarding, an angry passenger started yelling at her about her father and the election. Ivanka was as polite and composed as ever in that awkward situation. The media praised her poise and unflappability, but some wondered why she was flying JetBlue in coach instead of in a private plane or in first class. I laughed out loud. Ivanka always flew economy!
As for the kids’ clothing budgets, it was minimal, because they wore school uniforms on weekdays. Otherwise, the boys couldn’t have cared less about fashion. Don would be thrilled to wear jeans and a flannel every day. Ivanka does have an eye for nice things. If she wanted something cool and new, I took her shopping with me with a clear agenda and a concise list in mind. Spoiled kids view spending money as a form of entertainment, a cure for boredom. I taught mine that shopping is like running an errand, a necessary evil to endure once or twice a year. We made a back-to-school September shopping trip to Bloomingdale’s for casual and sporting clothes, a few cocktail dresses for Ivanka, and blazers, trousers, and shirts for the boys. We’d go again during their spring breaks for T-shirts, shorts, and bathing suits.
People think I have a black belt in shopping, but I actually can’t stand it. I have a system that makes it as painless and fast as possible. Every year, I spend half a day at Bloomie’s to pick up face cream and lingerie. If I like something, I buy a dozen sets in beige, a dozen in white, and a dozen in black. I send three of each color to Saint-Tropez, Miami, and New York. For suits and dresses, I can always shop in my closet! I still go to a few Fashion Week shows a year—including Dennis Basso, Carolina Herrera, Roberto Cavalli, Zang Toi, Domenico Vacca, and Marc Bouwer—with an eye toward comfortable, easy dresses, but I’m not the fashion maven I once was. I’m actually selling a lot of my vintage couture, in case anyone’s interested, and donating dozens upon dozens to charity.
Ivanka’s solution to not having a big clothing budget of her own when she was a teenager? She went shopping in my Indochine closet, choosing among the racks for blouses and skirts, dresses and suits. She still does. Two years ago, she was going to an eighties-themed party and called Dorothy (I was in France) to ask if she could come over to my town house and rummage in my closet for a Bob Mackie gold-, silver-, and white-striped beaded flapper dress. She found it and wore it to the party. The next day, the papers ran a picture of her in the dress alongside an old photo of me in the frock in all-white. Ivanka knows she can raid my closet whenever she wants, as long as she brings everything back (I’m still waiting for a red Dior dress to be returned . . .). She can borrow my jewelry, too. Over the years, I’ve seen photos of her in the papers and said, “So that’s where my diamond necklace ran off to.” It warms my heart that we share clothes. When she was a little girl, she played dress-up in my things, always going right for the high heels and clomping around in them. Those days are over, though. Her feet are one size bigger than mine so she can’t raid my shoe collection anymore. It’s kind of a shame. I don’t wear my heels often. The only shoes I wear these days are Ivanka Trump ballet flats! Maybe Ivanka’s daughter, Arabella, can pick up where her mom left off and take some stilettos off my hands.
-20-
HOW TO TALK TO ANYONE
Last year, Eric was on a flight to Scotland, and a comedian named Mohammed Amer sat down in the seat next to him. Apparently, the woman seated behind Eric warned Amer not to go anywhere near my son, assuming (wrongly) that Eric was prejudiced against Muslims. But Amer sat down anyway, and immediately launched into a conversation with Eric about immigration and discrimination. Amer told the Huffington Post afterward, “I just know we had a good, decent conversation, and I think that proves that we can talk to each other, and I think that’s what’s most important.” He posted a smiling photo of the two of them on his Facebook page.
Breaking news! My smart, friendly son can have a pleasant conversation with a stranger on an airplane! Stop the freaking presses.
My children were raised to have manners and be polite, and to engage in conversation. In a real way, Don, Ivanka, and Eric talk for a living. Right now, the boys are in the business world and have interactions with a wide range of people every hour of the day. The first call of the day might be with a billionaire banker. The next might be with a plumber. Ivanka is in politics now, which requires next-level conversation skills. In a single day, Ivanka might do an on-camera press interview, go to a parent-teacher conference, attend an inner-circle meeting in the Oval Office, and sit next to world leaders like Justin Trudeau or Angela Merkel in the Cabinet Room.
One of the greatest gifts I’ve ever given to my children is the gift of gab. I trained them to hold their own in conversation with anyone anywhere, at a construction site or a black-tie event. It doesn’t matter whom you’re speaking to, as long as you’re polite, respectful, confident, and articulate, with good eye contact and a friendly smile.
GIRL TALK
I didn’t spoil my kids, but I loved to indulge my friends. Every December, I hosted a decadent holiday luncheon at Trump Tower for eight or so of my closest pals. Every summer, I took a few dozen of them on the Trump Princess—a three-hundred-foot yacht—on a cruise of the Jersey coast. Every September, I invited six friends to lunch at our box at the US Open to see the quarterfinals matches. But my favorite friend gathering was the annual girlfriend weekend every spring at Mar-a-Lago. I’d invite twenty of my best pals for three days of excellent food, spa treatments, tennis, snorkeling, and ladies-only relaxation under the Florida sun, and Ivanka was with us the entire time, just another one of the girls.
Before everyone arrived, I’d ask each guest what she’d like to do while she was in Palm Beach, write down the requests, and make a personalized schedule for each woman for all three days packed with exercise classes in the dance pavilion where Marjorie Merriweather Post, the original owner of the property, used to have square dances; massages; naps; facials; golf lessons—anything her heart desired. If all twenty of them wanted a predinner massage at the same time, twenty massage therapists would be there with warm oils ready to go. On Friday, I flew the group down on a private plane, and the weekend began. The days were casual, but every evening, we put on fancy dresses for a moonlight dinner on the beach, with plentiful margaritas and strolling mariachis. One year, my friend Cathie Koos showed up at dinner in a Donald Duck costume. We all died.
The tradition ended after the divorce, but we had a ton of fun while it lasted. I made sure of it. One weekend, I went to the kitchen to see about the lunch and came back to the pool to find it deserted. I asked one of the butlers, “Where is everyone?”
“They went to the beach,” he replied.
I walked through the private tunnel to the beach and found them all . . . topless! I screamed, “Girls! Put on your tops! We’re right next to the snobs at the Bath & Tennis Club. They can see you! I’ll be run out of town!” Sure e
nough, some of the members, the old men with the red noses, were gawking at the fence. The girls put their tops back on. I was not run out of town.
That was as close as any men got to Mar-a-Lago during the girlfriend weekends, although one did try to schmooze his way in. Sylvester Stallone was with Brigitte Nielsen in Miami and called Donald to say he would like to visit Mar-a-Lago that weekend. Donald told him I was having a private party and no men were allowed, not even him. But Stallone didn’t take no for an answer. He called me directly and said, “Hi, Ivana. It’s Sly. I’d like to come see you tomorrow.”
I said, “I’m sorry, but no men are allowed!”
“But I have such a great body, Ivana. Your friends will love to have me.”
“You know what? So do I!” I said, and hung up. He came the following weekend. His body was definitely worth the wait—and so was Brigitte’s.
* * *
IVANKA
I remember my mother’s women’s retreat weekends at Mar-a-Lago. Part of the weekend was an aerobics class with all of her girlfriends, and they wore these amazing, vivid-colored outfits that were pure Jane Fonda, skintight, with color-coordinated headbands and leg warmers. I didn’t join in the class, but I remember watching them from the side, mesmerized by the parade of colors.
Mom used to put me to work whenever she had a party. It started when I would just do some drawings for fun, and she loved them so much she would give me the assignment of making twenty or thirty drawings to use as place mats for a lunch, and personalizing them for each guest. I would make a production assembly line with construction paper and crayons to get it done in time.