I mean, what restaurant couldn’t find space for John Fucking Kennedy Jr.? Most places would bring a carpenter in to build a table just to have him sit in their restaurant.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t just waltz into La Grenouille without a reservation,” he said.
As soon as John slammed the phone down, I called the restaurant in tears and explained to some random French guy that I had forgotten to make the reservation, and then I pleaded with him to seat my boss.
“It eez no problem,” he said when I finally took a breath. “They are already seated.”
When John returned from lunch, I was petrified. I’d spent the past few hours organizing files to the point of hysteria. But he just flopped down in a chair, giving me his best puppy-dog eyes, which, as you can imagine, were pretty good, and said, “I’m sorry, Rosie. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I was just embarrassed in front of Mrs. Kravis. I didn’t want her to think I’m an arrogant prick who expects special treatment whenever he walks in the door. It’s just disrespectful, you know?”
I appreciated John explaining why he was upset, but I didn’t quite follow why he was apologizing.
“They cleared the whole thing up at the restaurant,” he said.
“They cleared what up?” I asked nervously.
“The maitre d’ said there was a mix-up because a new person was managing the reservations. He brought the book over and showed me that my name was put in for next week.”
I didn’t contradict the maitre d’s story, though I was beyond grateful to him for covering my ass. I understood why John had been so angry. Unlike some celebrities, he didn’t need to feed his ego by aggrandizing his image. He didn’t throw his weight around to validate his existence; he didn’t have to. There was not one person alive who was more famous than John F. Kennedy Jr. If the hottest movie star in the world was someplace and John showed up, the star would immediately turn into wallpaper. John worked to put people at ease—making reservations, writing thank-you notes, always following the proper protocol. He wanted to do things the right way, and so did I.
As soon as John left my office, I picked up the phone to find out the name of the coolest maitre d’ in the world and send him the biggest bouquet of flowers I could afford. I was learning some manners of my own.
While I was busy learning manners from the master and fending off lunatics, John and Michael continued courting investors for the magazine. We could have carpeted the office floor with rejection letters—all very sincere in their regret, mind you, but rejections nonetheless. And so we were psyched when Hachette Filipacchi, the media company behind magazines such as Elle and Car and Driver, called to request a second meeting. After taking a call from a representative for David Pecker, the CEO, who had said they were interested in making a deal, John hung up with a combination of shock and sheer relief on his face.
“Wow. This might be it,” he said.
The months of knocking on people’s doors asking for money had taken a toll on John and Michael, two rich guys not used to going around town with their hats in their hands. All the skepticism and doubt brought on by rejection finally gave way to the possibility that their wacky magazine idea might actually change the world—and I would be part of it.
Unless . . . that’s when a terrible thought and very real possibility dawned on me: What if John and Michael don’t take me with them to Hachette? We’d never discussed the scope of my job, neither its duties nor its timeline. Maybe, once they got the magazine up and running, they planned on dumping me for someone with more experience or a better education. What do they need me for? Why wouldn’t they want someone more corporate, with some magazine experience? I thought. The feeling crystallized when John and Michael said they were heading out for a celebratory drink and a strategy meeting.
On my way home, I walked through the small park near the office to clear my head, but even the perfect fall weather couldn’t dispel my anxiety. By the time I opened the door to my apartment, I was in a total funk. I was convinced that I was back at square one; only now when I revised my résumé I’d have to put the title of assistant down as my current position instead of publicist. The white walls of my apartment had never felt smaller.
I had to talk to someone about my situation. The trouble was, not many people knew the identity of my current employer—except for Frank and my family, and Frank wasn’t exactly a model career counselor. John hadn’t asked me to, but I’d kept my role as his assistant secret from most people. I didn’t want random friends asking me for autographed photos or out-of-the-way favors. More important, I was nervous about inadvertently leaking secret information to the wrong person. So I erred on the paranoid side when it came to concealing my job, telling my friends that I was working for a new PR firm.
Once while talking to a guy I wanted to impress, I bragged that I worked for a magazine.
“Oh, which one?” he asked.
I panicked then and tried to dodge the question. “It’s not one you’ve ever heard of,” I replied dismissively.
“Try me.”
I racked my brain. “The Congressional Research Tribune.”
“No, I’ve never heard of that,” he said slowly. “Sounds technical.”
“It’s based out of DC” was all I could muster, and he instantly lost interest.
Okay, so I wasn’t CIA material. All I knew was that if the press found out John was shopping a magazine, the leak wouldn’t come from me. While I was learning all the nuances of being a discreet and dedicated assistant, I hadn’t yet learned how to advocate for myself.
So I picked up the phone and called the one person I knew wouldn’t ask a lot of annoying questions.
“Hey, Dad,” I said into the receiver.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll get your mother.”
“No, Dad, wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, what’s the matter?”
I dove right into my predicament. Talking a mile a minute, I explained that I wasn’t sure John and Michael would be taking me with them and I didn’t know how to ask.
“You’re a smart girl with a lot of common sense and a good heart,” my dad said. “They’ve already hired you, so what are you worried about?”
“Come on, Dad. These people have Ivy League degrees. They have money. They’re completely hooked up. What the hell do they need from me?”
“Hey! What kind of stupid talk is that? Just because someone’s got more money doesn’t mean they’re better than you. As a matter of fact, most people with money are the cheapest bastards in the world. Just because they’ve got cash doesn’t mean they’ve got class. And it doesn’t mean they owe you anything, either. What they’ve got is none of your business. What have I always told you and your sisters?”
“Act like you’ve been there before,” I said, repeating the phrase I’d heard him say so many times.
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t care if you walk into a penthouse on Park Avenue, you just say, ‘Nice place.’ Don’t make a production or tell them how much better it is than your place.”
“I know, Dad, but this situation is not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is. Listen, sweetheart, you already have everything. I bet these guys need you just as much as you need them.”
At the office the next day, with my dad’s pep talk fresh in my head, I waited a few hours after John came in before approaching him. I’d been trying to get up the nerve to talk to him all morning, turning my dad’s words over and over in my mind as I continued the pep talk: You’re doing a good job. John likes you. He’s comfortable around you. He doesn’t have to censor himself or worry that you’re untrustworthy. You’re a Terenzio from the Bronx, which means you keep shit close to your vest. Most of all, John knows that if you have something to say, you’ll say it to his face.
I saw the light on his phone line go off and slowly walked to his office, where John was squeezing a stress ball and reading the newspaper standing up.
“Ca
n I ask you something?” I blurted out, startling him as I stood in the doorway.
“Sure, Rosie.”
“Am I coming with you to Hachette?”
“Of course you are,” he said. “You’re a lifer, Rosie.”
And just like that, everything was okay. Everything was more than okay; it was amazing. My dad was right. And now I was about to enter the ranks of New York’s publishing elite alongside one of the country’s most famous figures. I knew that lots of people—cooler, richer, and better educated than me—would kill to be in my position. I had no idea what I had done to deserve this. I just hoped it would last.
CHAPTER
3
The name George said it all. Paying homage to the country’s first president, the title made clear the magazine’s themes of patriotism, democratic engagement, and history. And its informality pushed the publication’s pop side.
After the second meeting with Hachette, John and Michael’s venture gained momentum. Over the next several months, they attended meetings and more meetings with the Hachette people and their lawyers, until the deal was formally announced in February 1995, on Washington’s birthday (another of Michael’s PR moves). I wasn’t privy to the legal back-and-forth, but from my perspective, everything went smoothly. Everything except the naming of the magazine.
The name George was the brainchild of Daryl Hannah’s brother-in-law Lou Adler, the record producer responsible for the Mamas and the Papas and Cheech and Chong. John and Michael loved it. Unfortunately, Hachette didn’t feel the same way, and they were footing the bill. The company offered a bunch of horrible alternatives, including Crisscross, which, I guess, represented the juxtaposition of pop culture and politics. When John found out they wanted to change the title, he became incensed. But Michael talked him down, telling him everything would work out and that he had this one covered.
Sure enough, a few days later, an anonymous source leaked an item to Page Six that John Kennedy was starting a magazine—and it was called George. No one, not even the Hachette execs holding the purse strings, could take it back after that. Now the whole world was waiting to get their first copy of George—the title was a done deal.
For the first three months of George’s existence, the magazine was nothing more than John, the editor in chief; Michael, the publisher; and me, their assistant, locked in a conference room at Hachette’s headquarters, a skyscraper with forty-eight stories of black glass and steel at Broadway and 51st Street and a far cry from the laid-back downtown vibe at PR/NY.
Located off a small, gray lobby on the 44th floor—and shared by several other Hachette magazines, including Elle—was our “office,” a windowless conference room outfitted with three well-worn metal desks. So much for the glamorous image I had of New York publishing. We had three computers but only two phones, and no watercooler. I couldn’t believe we were stuck in such a shabby hole—even if it was temporary. John, the anti-diva, joked, “This is the life,” while I wondered if we wouldn’t have been more comfortable setting up our new offices on a bench in Madison Square Park.
We didn’t have time to brood over the claustrophobic setup, however; we had so much to do that we often worked right though lunch and dinner. (Best diet ever: I probably lost fifteen pounds during that time.) The conference room was flooded with résumés and portfolios as John and Michael set out to build an entire staff from executive editor to editorial assistant. The stakes were high as they searched for energetic and intelligent people who could fill in the knowledge gap left by their lack of editorial experience.
Everything was new and exciting—every person, position, and idea. But it was stressful, too. I had never worked at a magazine and couldn’t fathom keeping up with the slew of well-read, socially adept editors or creative and chic designers with whom I imagined I’d be working. Before Michael and John had hired a single person, I decided they were all smarter, better-looking, and savvier than me.
Since I still hadn’t told my friends about my new job, I wasn’t able to unburden myself of these mounting insecurities. Not that it mattered much, since I spent all my time at work, where personal calls were out of the question. Sandwiched between Michael and John, I wasn’t about to start whining into the phone, even to Frank. “It’s so good to be this close,” Michael said, laughing. “I feel like we’re a little family.” Good? I thought. Speak for yourself. I didn’t breathe for the first three months.
Everyone in that building was dying to know what we were up to. From the producers at VH-1 to the security guy in the lobby, people were buzzing with curiosity about John and his mystery magazine. We were like a new toy.
Within those four cramped walls, I also got my first real taste of the lack of privacy that accompanied John wherever he went. At Random Ventures, we had been bombarded with phone calls and mail, but here, people were constantly coming in and out of the conference room throughout the day. They would find any and every reason to ask a question or be helpful, while we remained trapped behind our metal desks. Building maintenance guys came to replace lightbulbs that weren’t burned out, and operations staff regularly checked our unchanging thermostat.
The female traffic was hilarious. Our neighbors, the Elle girls, turned John-spotting into an ongoing contest, keeping score on who saw him the most times in a day. Women in trendy outfits, barely able to stifle their giggles, made a well-worn path to our door.
That extra attention John was accustomed to quickly extended to Michael and me once people realized our association. All I had to do was walk into the lobby with John once, and from then on I got a super-friendly “Hello, and how was your weekend?” from the security guard. Employees I didn’t recognize knew my name, and a couple of them even asked me to lunch. It reached the point where I was slightly paranoid about leaving the conference room, not sure what I would encounter on my way to grab a sandwich.
I also became somewhat spoiled—I wasn’t about to let preferential treatment go to waste. I needed only to drop my name and someone from IT would race down to fix our computers. If I requested a fax machine, corporate asked, “Do you need a black or white one?” If someone from Woman’s Day magazine asked for one, it could take months, if they got one at all.
Employees throughout the building came by to apply for openings at the new magazine. An art director at one of Hachette’s titles asked me out on a date when he dropped off his portfolio. Although he was a little too old to be sporting a ponytail, I was psyched to go out with him—he was an insider and he was interested in me. He took me to Rodeo Bar, a Tex-Mex hangout with live music; we had a good time laughing over our common Italian heritage and gossiping about magazine publishing (my new profession!). During our second date, at a diner not too far from the office, he asked me about the position he’d applied for as George’s creative director. Surprised he didn’t know that John had already filled it, I gave him the scoop. At the end of the meal, my portion of the bill—for a Greek salad and a Diet Coke—came to eight dollars, he informed me. What the hell? He asked me out and now he wants me to pay? I didn’t have any cash, and the diner was cash-only. But he had a solution for that. “There’s an ATM across the street. I’ll wait here,” he said.
My association with John was tricky—not everyone liked me just for me anymore. Ultimately, everyone wanted a connection to him, whether it was a job or just a sighting. Not long after we arrived at Hachette, a routine mention of John’s personal life wound up in the paper. The untrue gossip item, which had him partying at a strip club, prompted an immediate visit from someone in the corporate communications department, who was overexcited about the opportunity to insinuate herself into the situation.
“How are we commenting on this?” she asked in a serious tone.
Michael just looked at her as if she were crazy—and dumb. “We aren’t going to do anything,” he said dryly.
In that instant, Michael set the PR strategy for George. It was about promoting a magazine, not a person. He was not about to hand that responsibili
ty over to a corporate flack. She exited the conference room, clearly upset, and held a grudge against us that only strengthened the insularity of our group as we closed ranks within that big company.
Although the core idea behind George was still hazy to curious onlookers and the general public, for the three of us, the mission was crystal clear: John and Michael were determined to get people interested in politics. To the outside world, John might have appeared apolitical, a dilettante coasting along on his looks and money, a “dreamboat adrift.” But in reality, John was ardently civic-minded. He wanted to bring disaffected young people into the democratic process by getting them hooked on the characters and behind-the-scenes stories of political life. According to him, those narratives were just as fascinating, horrifying, and inspiring as any gossip item or made-for-TV movie. Once people knew their congressman or mayor as well as they did the latest movie star, he reasoned, they would be more apt to care—and vote.
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