Melania had come up with the idea out of sheer boredom. For years, she’d had to walk from the White House, all the way across Pennsylvania Avenue, to Blair House, just to pay homage to some foreign dignitary who was too cheap to simply rent a Presidential Suite at one of her husband’s hotels. Instead, she had to continuously traipse to the Presidential Guest House to see Donald’s visiting dignitaries.
It was a nice enough house. At 70,000 square feet, it was actually larger than her executive residence at the White House. Not that she was ever there. It had a lovely Rose Garden, and the Treaty Room easily sat dozens at a beautiful mahogany table. For some reason, there was a picture of some old Chinese Dowager hanging in the room. Maybe she’d given some other president the elegant china they always ate from? Did they have a Tiffany’s in Hong Kong?
She couldn’t imagine what the staff, which included a general manager, two butlers, a doorman, four housekeepers, two chefs, a launderer, a curator, and several maintenance workers, did while nobody was visiting. This happened very often because her sneaky husband had found out that if two or more foreign visitors of equal rank were coming to meet with him, neither was invited to stay at Blair House to avoid the perception of favoritism.