For all the ridiculousness of the situation, I knew Trump was pissed and that I had to come up with a plan for my sake, and for David’s sake, a fact that we both understood intuitively. Going to Trump and telling him that he’d ordered the worst-quality Benjamin Moore paint available would only result in our instant dismissal or a screaming fit with blame hurled in all directions, except himself, with the net result that we would be back where we started: with a delusional proposition that had to be supported as fact, despite the blatantly obvious truth that it was a lie. Ring a bell?
