Before Samantha could answer, Barry walked into the room. As opposed to all the men in shirts and ties, Barry arrived wearing his signature sweatshirt with an Armani jacket. “Sorry I’m late. We were shooting and we went over. Then I had Senator McCain on the phone. It’s great to be here.” Barry was led by the butler to his seat, between Samantha and Judy. “Thanks for having me. This is a fabulous apartment.” He kissed Judy. Then he turned to Samantha with a perfunctory “Nice to see ya again.”

“Nice to see you,” Samantha answered, and was delighted that none of the heat from their dance in Palm Beach was still apparent.

Waiters, like clockwork, began revolving around the table with lamb arranged in silver trays like Busby Berkeley girls in a musical extravaganza.

“Istan-kebab,” the waiter demonstrated. “Cubes of lamb in fennel seeds, braised lamb shank with marinated eggplant, cranberry-crusted rack of lamb with risotto stuffing, lamb loin with cabernet mint sauce, and lamb chops in champagne-chipotle.”

Frankie whispered to Charlie, “Holy lamb!”

Behind the lamb was another rotation of chestnut and brussel sprout purée with horseradish cream, roasted Jerusalem artichokes, pomegranate soufflé, pistachio-infused tofu, and roasted potatoes in a balsamic reduction.

Barry helped himself to several chops. “I’m starving. And I’m on fuckin’ Atkins.”

“But you’re so thin!” Judy looked at him. “You can have anything you want.”

“Ask my wife.” He called down the table where Clarice was seated between Charlie and Jil.

“Clarice, Judy wants to know what I can eat.”

“Protein.” Clarice smiled at him.

“That’s enough about my eating. I spend too much time with actors and all they talk about is their diets. And meanwhile, the world’s going to hell,” Barry continued. “What kind of food is this? I’m so glad it’s not raw fish.”

“Thank you.” Judy was thrilled with herself and Umit Afet. “It’s Turkusion.”

“It’s a little this-a, a little that-a, and the emphasis on the latt-a.” Jil smiled as he quoted Lola’s opening number from Damn Yankees.

“You mean it’s Turkish. It’s delicious. But what the hell are the Turks doing?” Barry continued. “Are they on our side or not? Personally, right now I’m with the Kurds.”

“I think it’s complicated. You have to be there to really understand it.” Paul Rodman put down his lamb shank. “Albert, this wine is fabulous! Bordeaux ’85, am I right?”

“’82. Château Léoville Las Cases,” Albert answered.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think. And I don’t mind sticking my neck out even in this beautiful home.” Barry took a sip of wine. “The entire Middle East is our fault, the Brits’ fault, the Israelis’ fault, and the Palestinians’ fault. Sharon is a crazy person and Arafat is a son of a bitch.”

“And you have the answer?” Adrienne Strong-Rodman asked Barry.

“Adrienne, you know me. I wouldn’t presume to tell anyone what to do.” Barry smiled. “But I know the Arabs and the Jews are all acting like studio presidents. They fuckin’ lie and nobody’s calling their bluff. Not even the Americans tell the truth.”