THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  THE

  PRESIDENT

  IS

  COMING

  TO

  LUNCH

  Other books by Nan and Ivan Lyons

  SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF EUROPE

  CHAMPAGNE BLUES

  SOLD!

  THE

  PRESIDENT

  IS

  COMING

  TO

  LUNCH

  Nan and Ivan Lyons

  This book is a novel and the story and events that appear herein are entirely fictional. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to a real person is unintentional and coincidental. Certain real persons are mentioned in the book for the purposes of enhancing and adding reality to the story, but obviously the fictionalized events involving either fictional characters or real persons did not occur.

  Camelot by Alan Jay Lerner & Frederick Loewe.

  Copyright © I960 by Alan Jay Lerner & Frederick Loewe.

  All Rights Administered by CHAPPELL & CO., INC.

  International Copyright Secured. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Used by permission.

  Lyrics from The Desert Song.

  Copyright © 1926 by Bambalina Music Publishing, Bill/Bob Publishing Co.,

  Warner Brothers Inc. Renewed 1953. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 1988 by Nan and Ivan Lyons

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency, 928 Broadway, Suite 901, New York, NY 10010.

  ebook ISBN: 9780786754625

  print ISBN: 9780786754618

  Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services

  TO BARBARA AND RALPH

  —with love and appreciation

  THE

  PRESIDENT

  IS

  COMING

  TO

  LUNCH

  CONTENTS

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  MONDAY

  LIBBY HATED THE SIGHT OF AN EMPTY TABLE. AN empty table was as threatening as a Greek chorus. If you could still get in, Libby’s wasn’t the place to be.

  “Table 51?” Steven checked the reservations book. “Somebody Birnbaum. A deuce. Twelve-fifteen.”

  “It’s twelve-thirty. Get rid of it.”

  Libby sized up the room the way she used to scout an audience from the wings. Emerald eyes ablaze with anticipation. Large crimson mouth open. Expectant. Her gamin face, framed by the red parentheses of her hair, tilted to the side. Still the dancer. One shoulder pushed forward waiting to catch the beat.

  “It’s too slow out there,” she said, snapping her fingers.

  “Seems fine to me.”

  “Tell them to pick it up in the kitchen.”

  Steven spoke in a monotone. “You’re the boss.”

  “Tell them this isn’t Lutèce!” Libby arched her feet inside the new pink suede shoes that matched her new pink suede suit.

  “Is that all?”

  “No.” Never taking her eyes from the crowded room, her face broke into a smile. “Tell me I’m gorgeous.” Without waiting for a reply, Libby stepped down into the dining room. She moved with the long-legged assurance of a Ziegfeld girl descending a staircase.

  The kingdom of glitz known as Libby’s had black lacquer walls. Glowing panels of frosted glass were etched with the Manhattan skyline. Deeply tufted apricot leather banquettes bordered the rectangular room. Shiny brass tubs filled with tall green palms stood like palace guards on the black tile floor. They created an illusion of privacy for people who were desperate to be seen. Like the Cantina in Star Wars, the room buzzed with the lingua franca of creatures from another world. Option. Layout. Pay or play. Reprint. Margin. Final cut. Points. Showcase.

  “Ta-da!” Arms outstretched, Libby stood in front of Sinatra’s table. “Tell me I’m gorgeous!”

  He smiled, then glanced at Norman Lear. “Norman, do you think she’s gorgeous?”

  “You want something to eat? Tell her she’s gorgeous.”

  Sinatra leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Baby, you’re gorgeous.”

  She patted his hand and winked. “Who’s going to argue with a big star?”

  Maxie the waiter was about to hand out menus. But Libby stopped him. “Forget the classifieds. I put something very special aside for you guys.” She turned to Maxie and whispered. “Mayday. Tell the kitchen I need two VIP’s.” She slapped him on the behind. “Very VIP!”

  It was the dress at Table 21 that caught Libby’s eye. It would have been an Audrey Hepburn dress even if Audrey Hepburn weren’t in it. Talking intently to Mikhail Baryshnikov, she smiled as Libby approached. The two women held hands and kissed the air on either side of their cheeks as though kisses cost millions.

  “Just look at you,” Libby said. “You ought to be illegal.” She turned her cheek for Baryshnikov to kiss. “You, too, twinkle toes.”

  “Would you believe it?” he laughed. “I am turning into a lunchnik.”

  “I saw Cal a few weeks ago,” Audrey said, pressing Libby’s hand. “He was looking very Hollywood.”

  Libby took a deep breath. “He’d better be looking very New York.”

  “So that’s it!”

  “What’s it?” Libby asked.

  Audrey smiled. “That glow. Cal’s in town.”

  “Cal who?” She looked down at the table. Two Perriers. “Listen, in case you forgot, there’s a kitchen attached to this saloon.” She tapped her fingers on the menu. “The least you can do is eat while you have lunch.”

  Libby grabbed a waiter as though she had something to tell him. She didn’t. It was a bluff. She needed to make an easy exit. She didn’t want to talk about Cal. Instead, she focused on the plates Norm carried. Grilled goat cheese on radicchio. Smoked fresh tuna with candied ginger. She could always match the food to the face. Table 14. A pair of independent producers.

  “Ta-da! Tell me I’m gorgeous.”

  The female indieprod, who was wearing a tie, grabbed Libby’s hand. “You’re gorgeous! The tuna is gorgeous! The waiter is gorgeous!”

  Libby shook her head. “Is she back on Vitamin Q?”

  The male, who wore a diamond earring, rolled his eyes. “Who cares! We’ve finally gotten through to Meryl’s people!”

  “Meryl’s people!” Libby leaned over and kissed him. “Can Sydney Pollack be far behind?”

  “Of course, we’ve only been talking on the phone.”

  Libby waved her hand, brushing aside all doubts. “Today the phone. Tomorrow the lunch!”

  The indieprods looked at each other as Libby walked away. “It better not be tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’m broke.”

  The female tugged at her tie. “Don’t be stupid. We’ll open a house account.”

  “With what as collateral? My herpes?”

  “Well, I can’t have you flash your MasterCard in front of Meryl. I would die of embarrassment. This is our one shot at the big time.”

  “Not according to MasterCard. They’ve reduced me to a $100 limit.”

  “You’re such a wus! We’re about to have our first power lunch and you run out of batteries!”

  Moina Hayle, even in her mid-sixties, made heads turn. As editor of Avanti, the slickest fashion magazine on the stands, Moina held the copyright on style. All of Seventh Avenue peered into the same looking glass. “Moina, Moina, on the wall . . .” In New York, Paris, and Kyoto, she epitomized chic. But, put her on Main Street USA, and she’d be stared at as nothing more than a garishly painted old lady.

  “Ta-da!” Libby posed in her new pink suit. “How do I look?”

  Moina too
k her plate of steamed vegetables and stood up. “You look like an eraser.” She crossed the aisle, waving her fork hello at Barbara Walters.

  Libby grabbed hold of Steven as he passed. “Do you think I look like an eraser?”

  “Yes.” He smiled meanly and whispered, “Ta-da!”

  Libby held tight to him. “I want to know the minute Cal gets here.”

  “How about a drum roll?”

  “How about a punch in the mouth?”

  Table 73. A young agent in the talent department at William Morris. He was short, showed lots of cuff but little promise. Turning to the Nordic blonde seated next to him, he snapped, “No soup! Nothing that can spill. The first rule of lunch is eat neat.” He stood up quickly. “Libby!”

  “Look who’s here!” she said. “McDonald’s burn down?”

  “I want you to meet Wanda Fogelman. She was one of the hostages. You remember. The TWA thing.”

  “Oh, my God.” Libby took Wanda’s hand.

  “She just signed with us.”

  Libby smiled. “So now you’re a professional hostage!”

  He raised his glass. “I’ve already spoken to Stallone’s people.”

  Wanda followed the conversation as though watching a tennis match. The Wanda Fogelman Open.

  “Lib, I’d like to get a line on Wanda in Fay Fox’s column.”

  Libby shook her head. “Better than that. I’ll introduce her to Senior for you. Then Fay will really have something to write about.”

  He was ecstatic. “I knew I could count on you. Wanda sure needs some help!”

  Libby smiled. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.” She pointed to Wanda’s open menu. “Try the catfish bisque. Stallone loves it.”

  Doris Abrams had just taken a bite of her pheasant on rye with cranberry mayonnaise and green tomato slices when the phone rang. Swallowing quickly, she picked up the receiver. “Dr. Sawyer’s table.” Doris raised her eyebrows as Libby stopped in front of her. “Hi, Mrs. Sawyer. Fine. Oh, I’m sorry, but he’s at a patient’s table right now.” Doris looked at Libby, stifling a laugh. “No, I don’t think she’s anyone famous. You bet! I’ll have him call just as soon as he gets back. You, too.” Doris hung up and groaned. “These nooners of his are going to drive me nuts.” She glanced at her watch. “Speedy Gonzales must be through by now.” She started eating quickly. “I wish he were a little more romantic. I can never finish before he gets back.”

  Libby patted her on the shoulder. “Yours is not to reason why. Yours is just to lunch and lie.”

  Phyllis and Donald Elgin were Libby’s oldest friends. They were regulars. Phyllis, the producer of Broadway’s latest smash hit, exhaled an angry stream of smoke as Libby approached. “Why can’t I get anything to eat in this rat trap?”

  Donald stubbed out her cigarette. “Phyllis, stop thinking about food. We came here for lunch.”

  Libby looked at Donald. “What happened? She only eats when she’s manic.”

  “Jeremy turned down the London company.”

  Libby shrugged. “If he had any brains, would he be an actor?”

  Phyllis lit another cigarette. “I’ve got a theater waiting in London, and no one to put in the star dressing room.” She looked to Libby for comfort. “You don’t know what hell it is to cast a play. You turn down a picture because of money or because of your astrologer. But everyone thinks there’s only one reason to turn down a play.”

  Donald gloated. “Because it’s a lousy play!”

  “It’s a hit!” Phyllis snarled.

  Libby took her hand. “Let me speak to Chris Reeve. He’s coming in tonight.”

  “My darling. I knew I could count on you. The Mother Teresa of lunch. Now, swear to me, not a word about Jeremy to that bitch Fay.”

  Libby put a hand to her heart. “On von Bülow’s life.” She watched Phyllis reach for the phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “Caravelle. Maybe they deliver.”

  Libby slammed the receiver down as Steven came over and whispered, “He’s here.”

  Her face lit up. “Cal?”

  “Birnbaum,” Steven said impatiently.

  “Who the hell is Birnbaum?”

  “The no-show. Table 51?”

  Libby rolled her eyes. “Please, Steven. Not now.”

  Donald smiled. “What time is Cal coming?”

  Phyllis lowered her voice. “From the gleam in her eyes, very shortly after he arrives.”

  “She’s just jealous,” Donald said.

  Libby crossed her fingers. “Twenty-two years next month. If I don’t screw it up.”

  As unusual as it was, in that room, to remain married to the same man for twenty-two years, it was even more astonishing to remain divorced. But Libby had never found anyone she loved more than Cal Dennis. And although they were no longer husband and wife, she wasn’t about to give up being divorced from him. She cherished her “favored nation” status with Cal as though they had taken vows on it.

  Jessica Stanford, wife of network kingpin Chaz Stanford, was known simply as J. That made it so much easier when signing checks, which was what J did most of the time. She was lunching with Mrs. Sakhrani, who wore a red dot in the middle of her forehead.

  “Darling!” J extended a hand toward Libby. “You must meet my Mrs. Sakhrani. She’s related to the Naipauls.”

  “The Mehtas,” Mrs. Sakhrani corrected with a smile.

  J shrugged and took a bite of her chicken livers in raspberry vinegar. “Who can keep track these days? I remember when New York used to be the Cohens and the Kellys.”

  Libby shook Mrs. Sakhrani’s hand. “You must be working on the fund-raiser with J.”

  Mrs. Sakhrani nodded, picking up a slice of toast on which she spread a thick layer of California golden caviar. “We already have a million six for famine relief.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Libby caught sight of Moina. She was heading for the table, steady on the mark, like a torpedo in slow motion. In one hand, a glass of wine acquired en route. In the other, her vegetable platter. “Oh oh,” Libby said. “Here comes Deep Couture.”

  J gasped. “How do I look?” Quickly, she brushed a crumb from her dress. “Did she get you yet?”

  “Did Javert get Valjean?”

  Moina stood in front of J and shook her head. “What an appalling dress. You must be raising money for the tasteless.”

  Libby jumped in. “Moina, darling, meet Mrs. Sakhrani. She’s related to the Gandhis.”

  Fay Fox grew up in South Carolina. She had deaf parents and learned to read lips at an early age. As a campaign worker for Stevenson, she proved her loyalty by reporting the off-mike comments of the opposition. But instead of politics, Fay became hooked on gossip. Before she knew it, she was reading the hottest lips in town. As the “ghost” for an ailing show-biz columnist, she inherited his space but not his reputation. Fay always checked sources. “Why didn’t you tell me Cal was due in?”

  Libby batted her eyes. “Cal who?”

  “His Agent of Agents called three times to make sure I leak it in tomorrow’s column. You know, sometimes I feel like I work for the Daily Bladder.”

  “Cal told me he was sneaking into town.”

  “Honey, for Cal that is sneakin’.”

  “If you tell this to anyone, I’ll kill you.” Libby took hold of Fay’s hand. “I’m going to die if he doesn’t get here soon.”

  “That’s your big exclusive? Sweetie, it’s a good thing you’re not in the news business or we’d still be reading about Noah on page one.” Fay’s phone began to blink. She picked it up, announcing, “It’s me!” She rolled her eyes. “Warren, darlin’, thanks much for callin’ back.”

  Libby winked at Fay and moved on to Senior’s table. Edgar F. Singer was the last of Hollywood’s “golden age” moguls. Unlike his contemporaries, Senior hadn’t faded out gracefully via the grave. Instead, he had been ousted from the studio after a bitter fight for control with his son. Senior and Junior had not spoken in years. Unable to
accept his fate as an anachronism, Senior became one of the busiest people in Hollywood. He worked around the clock. Seven days a week. But he never closed a deal. He was in a perpetual state of negotiation. On seeing Libby, he threw her a kiss and said, “I’m deciding between the liver and the chicken.”

  Another meaningless negotiation. Senior always ordered the liver. He ordered the liver because he hated the liver. He let it sit there uneaten as a power play.

  Senior was “negotiating” with one of his ex-wives, an over-the-hill musical comedy star who had just played an over-the-hill musical comedy star on television. Francine wanted the lead in a movie Senior had been planning for ten years. A sequel to The Wizard of Oz entitled, Dorothy—The Woman.

  Libby bent over and kissed her. “The word around town is you were dynamite.”

  “Too bad you didn’t write the review on Sunday.”

  “Forget the Sunday critics,” Libby said. “They’re like part-time whores. They really enjoy fucking you.”

  Moina, who had been Senior’s second wife, walked over holding the Sunday review in one hand, her vegetable plate in the other. “If you ask me, I think you got off easy. You’re too old to play anyone your age. As a matter of fact, you’re too old to play anyone female. You should start playing old men.” She dropped the review onto the table.

  Libby changed the subject. She leaned close to Senior. “I want you to think about that blonde across the aisle.”

  “At my age, all I can do is think. Why is she sitting with that pisher from William Morris?”

  Libby whispered, “They’ve been talking to Stallone’s people.”

  Senior was impressed. “Stallone’s people?”

  “She was a hostage,” Libby explained.

  “In what picture?”

  Moina rolled her eyes. “So much for lunch with the dead.”

  Libby patted Francine’s hand. “How about something terrific to eat?”

  Francine glared angrily at Moina and gritted her teeth. “I’ll have the tartare.”

  “Tartare?” Libby groaned. “You could order that from a butcher!”

  In truth, although the kitchen was superb, no one came to Libby’s for food. They came for lunch. To do lunch. Lunch was the most important event of their day. They spent all morning preparing for it, all afternoon recovering from it, and they lay in bed all night thinking about it. Lunch had nothing to do with eating. Libby wasn’t in the food business. She was in real estate. She rented table space.