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“I’ll be in Irving’s office,” said Sean, taking Kate’s bag and the papers with him.

Kate stepped into the center aisle and walked with Irving toward the main stage.

“Kate, what you are about to experience will probably make you nauseous,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A table reading for the next play I’m supposed to open. It’s calledTrillary.”

“Trilogy?”

“No.Trillary.It’s a dark comedy about the next presidential election. Trump runs against Hillary Clinton all over again. It’s too close to call. Both candidates are up all night, and finally the media makes the announcement: it’s a tie. Two hundred sixty-eight electoral college votes for each.”

“What do they do?” asked Kate, as they climbed the stairs at stage right.

“Trump still has his key to the front door. Bill Clinton still has his. So...”

“They race to the White House, literally,” said Kate.

“Exactly. It’s four in the morning, and we have not one, but two presidents-elect barging into the East Wing in their pajamas trying to lay claim to the master bedroom.Trillary.”

“It sounds kind of funny.”

“ThinkWar of the Rosesmeets Washington.”

“What’sWar of the Roses?”

“An old Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner movie. They play a married couple in a bitter divorce, but neither one will leave the house. So they draw a line down the middle of every room—this half’s yours, this half’s mine. Of course, they end up killing each other. Which, in the case ofTrillary, I see as a happy ending.”

Bass parted the curtain, and they joined the cast onstage. Two men and a woman were seated around a table, each with a script in hand. Irving set the scene for Kate.

“We’re in the presidential bedroom suite. There’s a bright red line that runs right down the middle of the bed and continues across the room. Hillary slides under the covers on her side. Donald slides under the covers on his. And there’s this tense silence between them.”

Bass waited a beat, then rapped on the table, a door knock: “Enter Bill.”

Donald read his line. “Beat it, doughboy. This bed is for the presidents-elect.”

“Cool,” said Bill. “Does this mean I get to sleep with Melania?”

“No!” shouted Trillary—Hillary and Donald in unison.

“Cut,” said Irving. He excused himself from the actors and led Kate back outside the curtain. “You see, Kate? The script is terrible. And the playwright won’t let me change a word. If I do, he’ll sic the Dramatist Guild on my ass.”

“Well, itishis copyright.”

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say. I can’t work under those rules. Not with him and not with you.”

Kate’s antennae were up. “It sounds like you want total control of my script.”

“I need control. For starters, the play needs a narrator.”

“I don’t want a narrator.”

“Tom Watson, Sr., is the perfect narrator.”

“Why does my play need any narrator?”

“Because there’s so much good material. The only way to keep all of it in the play is by compressing it through a narrator.”