The evening news was in progress, and I sat through a political story and a crime tragedy before John’s nonengagement news hit the airwaves. The anchor gave a classic lead-in to the story before the whole statement I sent out flashed on the screen with “RoseMarie Terenzio” at the bottom—the entire statement. I was shocked.
Statements are usually spliced and diced in the media, especially on television, where airtime is precious. But there it was in its entirety, my long, not particularly interesting statement. I realized then that everything I said about John had the potential to be big news.
In addition, after having kept my job secret for so long, everybody in the world now knew I worked for John. My parents and Frank knew about my job, but not many others did. No sooner had the statement aired than my phone started ringing off the hook.
“Oh my God. I just saw your name on the TV!” my mother yelled into the phone.
“Everybody’s calling!” my dad said, grabbing the phone from her. “I’m so proud of you.”
Soon everybody was calling, even girls I hadn’t spoken to since high school. “Hi, this is Joanna. Remember me from your math class?” When I wondered how she’d found my number, Joanna answered, “Oh, your mom’s giving it out.”
I could deal with the mass media barraging me, but not my own family. My sister even asked if John would speak at my nine-year-old niece’s school during career day. “Absolutely not,” I said. “What’s wrong with you, Anita!”
Finally I gave up and let the answering machine pick up all the incoming calls. The adrenaline began to wane, and a gloomy feeling took its place. The job could be lonely sometimes. Worse than John’s empty office, the long string of vacated cubicles, or the silence of my studio, I was isolated by having to carry around confidential information. Everyone was so excited about the statement. Meanwhile, I knew it wasn’t even true. Secrets became burdens, even if they were good ones. The only people I could talk to in depth about John and Carolyn were John and Carolyn—and that got boring after a while.
The red light on my answering machine blinked madly, as if it were a symbol of my inner turmoil. I had to get out of my own head. On the next ring, I threw caution to the wind and picked up the phone without screening. Big mistake.
“Hi, Rose, I saw the thing on the news,” said a woman I knew casually. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s been kind of crazy. It’s nice to hear from you. Sorry it’s been a while, but I kind of have to go . . .”
“Listen, the reason I’m calling is, I need one more person in my wedding party. Rose, would you be in my wedding?”
I couldn’t even speak. Be in her wedding? I hadn’t seen this person in over a year.
“And maybe you could bring John as your date,” she added.
If I thought people were crazy before, now that the secret of what I did for a living was finally out, I realized they were totally insane.
CHAPTER
6
My outfit was so gorgeous, it deserved its own press conference. For the official launch of George, I wore a pink suit handmade expressly for me. I couldn’t believe I had a custom-made suit. (I have people who make me things?) And it wasn’t made by just anybody. Lars Nord—the backstage tailor for all the big fashion shows, such as Oscar de la Renta, Versace, and Calvin Klein—had created the pencil skirt and cropped jacket, which fit perfectly. I met Lars after buying my first really expensive pair of pants; Carolyn intervened before I hemmed them. “Honey, you’re not taking those to the dry cleaner,” she said. “You need Lars.” I quickly became friends with the Swedish tailor, who, incidentally, closely resembled Sting.
On September 7, 1995, the day of the launch, I took a taxi from my apartment downtown to Wall Street, because the white patent-leather stiletto mules I had chosen to complement the suit were not walking shoes.
I arrived so early that Federal Hall—the site of the first capitol of the United States, George Washington’s inauguration, and the George press conference—was empty except for a few people running around doing last-minute tasks, like making sure the larger-than-life posters of the magazine’s pages were correctly placed around the soaring columns. Only three days after successfully killing the story of Carolyn and John’s engagement, I wanted to make sure I did everything I could to help the launch go smoothly, like double-check that John and Michael had the final copies of their speeches and special guests found their correct seats.
Once we opened the doors, nearly three hundred reporters, cameramen, and photographers rushed in, frenzied as they jockeyed for position. I had never seen that many cameras in one place. One would have thought the excitement was over Mideast peace being achieved, not the launch of a magazine. Of course, the media was there for John, but with my spending day in, day out by his side, it was easy to forget the scope of his popularity. Not in a million years did I think that this much media would show up, even for him.
I wasn’t the only one surprised by the attention. Matt Berman was walking toward Federal Hall thinking, What the hell is going on, today of all days? He was worried he’d be late to the press conference . . . until he realized the melee was for the press conference.
Other than John, Michael was probably the only George staff member prepared for the moment. He began the press conference by introducing John with a classic line that only Michael could have thought up: “Being John Kennedy’s partner is like being Dolly Parton’s feet. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice, but they tend to get overshadowed.”
Then came the main event. When John strode up to the podium, a DJ played “Movin’ on Up.” (I wanted him to walk in to “Don’t Believe the Hype,” but it was too obvious, so we played it on the way out.) You could hardly hear the music because of all the camera shutters clicking. It was insane that a bunch of cameras could be so loud.
Faced with the crowd’s reaction to John, I started to get anxious, thinking, I really don’t want to be responsible for this kind of person. The stakes of my job suddenly seemed very high, even more so than during the engagement experience over the weekend. It was like jumping off a tall rock. Don’t look. Just jump.
As John started to speak, there was a collective pause. I think we were all nervous for him. I know I was. John, the master of last-minute planning, hadn’t finished his speech until around 10 p.m. the night before. Paul Begala, Bill Clinton’s former adviser, had lent his expertise and helped write the original draft, but John scribbled his own edits while rehearsing at the podium. But from his first joke (“I don’t remember seeing this many of you in one room since the results of my last bar exam”), he put everyone at ease. If I had a shred of doubt about him, it disappeared with that speech. It wasn’t just his clever and careful words but also his delivery. He spoke to the crowd as if he were sitting in his living room with friends.
When the conference was over, I walked away with a newfound respect for John. Wow, that guy had a lot of pressure on him, but he didn’t let it show, not for one minute. Yes, he got help with the words on the page, but he made them his own so that not one note was false. If there had been one put-on, John would have caught it. Even the most cynical son of a bitch in the room was rooting for him by the end of that speech.
The press conference was just the beginning of George’s exciting and amazing start. With a record 175 ad pages, the first issue completely sold out its print run of 500,000 copies after hitting newsstands several days later.
Every paper, magazine, and TV news program—from the very serious and political to totally pop—was commenting on our magazine. They didn’t all say good things, but at least they were talking about us. In editors’ offices or around my desk, we had fun following the speculation (about the magazine’s future, John’s next move, why a certain piece or photo had been chosen), knowing we had the real story. Sometimes, sitting on the subway going into work, I felt like I was in on a big secret. I looked at everybody else on the train and thought, I have the best job ever. I hadn’t even turned thirty yet, and
I was working with JFK Jr. at the most intriguing magazine in the country, in what seemed like the absolute center of the universe. I couldn’t imagine a better place to be.
Of course, John was the real center. And everyone—I mean absolutely everyone—wanted a piece of him. Not only did he have to do the PR rounds, appearing in print interviews or on talk shows such as Larry King Live, but after the press conference, the clamoring for his attention within the magazine heightened. After witnessing his power on the stage and with other members of the press, some of the editors who had previously been skeptical of John’s abilities suddenly wanted his opinion on everything.
It was my job to figure out who really needed to see him and who didn’t.
“Can I talk to John?” a staffer asked.
“Sure, can I tell him what it’s about?”
“I can’t really explain it to you.”
All righty, then, just go right ahead and barge in while he’s on the phone and sit on his lap, why don’t you?
“Okay, well, he’ll want to be prepared, so can you give me an idea?”
I engendered resentment from some people every time I said no. I was the dumb secretary on a power trip, who didn’t understand how magazines worked. But no matter how brutal or condescending some of them could be, I still never opened that door.
I also had to be more vigilant than ever with the phone. Now that John and George were in the news nearly every other day, the already-heavy volume of calls became heavier. People took the magazine as a new excuse to seek John out (“Could he come accept an editor-of-the-year award?” “Will he speak about the state of journalism at our symposium?”). And of course, the less resourceful crazies now knew George was housed in Hachette’s building.
Because of all that (and perhaps because of nostalgia for the start of this madness), I continued to answer the phone by saying “Random Ventures” the entire five years I picked up John’s phone. It was a tribute to the beginning, a reminder to enjoy the ride. It was also a brilliant way to sniff out a person and get a sense of who was legit and who wasn’t. If I had a nut on the phone, I could easily throw him off.
The only tricky issue was not throwing off important callers—such as the many celebrities who called to speak to John directly about participating in the magazine. When Robert De Niro called the office (most stars called John themselves, instead of having their assistants do it), he was really confused when I said, “Random Ventures.”
“Is this John Kennedy’s office?” he said in a tentative but sexy voice.
“Who’s calling?”
“Bob De Niro.”
Holy shit.
“I’ll pass you right through, Mr. De Niro.”
Stars usually called about being on the cover of the magazine. The conceit for George was that the person featured on each cover had to be George Washington in some shape or form. Matt Berman had to be really creative to come up with differing concepts so the images didn’t run together month after month. (My personal favorite was Howard Stern as Washington chopping down the cherry tree.) De Niro, who was promoting Casino at the time, portrayed Washington with a Las Vegas touch. In the gorgeous photo, the actor is holding a sword with a playing card on the tip. Eventually, John and Matt agreed to include other political icons, since there are only so many George Washington cover ideas.
With the field opened up, it became a game among George staffers to make a clever match of current celebrities with historical figures. We would sit in each other’s offices, thinking about our favorite personalities and concepts that would make sense for the magazine, convince John, and please the celebrities. To his credit, John went for some way-out ideas. When Matt suggested Kate Moss as Eve, the first woman in the world, for the 20 Most Fascinating Women in Politics issue, it was out of left field. But John gave the go-ahead, and the cover of the naked supermodel concealing herself with one hand and reaching out to a snake with the other became an instant collectible.
The magazine looked so fresh and cool because we didn’t have any preconceived ideas. Matt would pore over the images of every American reference possible—from the Iwo Jima statue to Rosie the Riveter—and sketch out elaborate drawings that pushed the boundaries of publishing. Sometimes John meandered into Matt’s art room while he was working and made comments like “That looks weird” or “I’ve never seen hair like that.” But Carolyn, one of Matt’s biggest supporters, put a stop to his intrusions. “Leave Matt alone,” she said, shooing John out. “Just let him do his thing.” There was one idea Matt couldn’t convince John to accept: his posing with Carolyn on the cover in an imitation of the famous painting American Gothic. “Are you kidding?” John said. “Things aren’t so bad that I have to put myself on my own cover.” The concept went out to Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, but they also declined.
We wanted celebrities we liked to pose for the cover, but we also tried to feature ones who would make news and sell magazines. Marlon Brando, one of the most elusive figures in Hollywood, who hadn’t done any press in years, fit the bill perfectly. Dressing him up as bad Santa for the cover of the holiday issue would have been a huge get. The request was a long shot, but when John was doing the asking, there was always a possibility. John sent the reclusive actor a letter with no expectation of a response. Then one evening, while we were at the office late to close the magazine, I received a phone call.
“Random Ventures.”
“I’m trying to reach John Kennedy” came the marble-mouthed reply.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Marlon Brando.”
The name jolted me upright. “Hello, Mr. Brando, hold on, I’ll get Mr. Kennedy for you.”
“Wait a minute, miss. Who are you? What’s your name?”
“RoseMarie.”
“RoseMarie what?”
“Terenzio.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Brando,” I answered proudly. I was looking forward to impressing him with my fluent Italian.
“If I said to you, ‘tu sé nu sfachim,’ what would you say?”
I wasn’t expecting that kind of Italian. This was not a dialogue I was prepared to have.
“I would say that’s not a nice thing to say to someone you don’t know.”
“Fair enough. Let me ask you a question: Have you ever been to Hollywood, RoseMarie?”
“I was only there for a week.”
“Well, you should stay away. Know why?”
“No.”
“Hollywood is a toilet bowl. It’s the most disgusting place in the world. . . .”
As Brando continued to spiral into a litany of complaints against his hometown, I realized his reputation for being bizarre was totally understated. The conversation was so weird that I started to worry about what was going to come out of his mouth next and nervously cut him off.
“Hold on, Mr. Brando. I think Mr. Kennedy is anxious to speak with you.”
I ran into John’s office. “It’s fucking Brando on the phone.”
“Wow, all right. Put him through.”
John was shocked that the famous recluse had responded to his letter. And, after talking to Brando, John was more shocked at the depth of his insanity. The actor agreed to the cover shoot, but only on one condition: that he could interview John on camera and pitch it as a TV special. Needless to say, John did not agree to his terms, and the cover offer went to Jack Nicholson instead.
Although just a small part of what I did at George, manning those phones was a full-time job—one that John was more than willing to help out with. Many times I would return from the bathroom or from grabbing something for lunch to find John sitting on my desk with the phone in the crook of his neck.
“Random Ventures,” he said. “No, she’s not here right now.”
“Someone called for you, Rosie.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t take a message.”
Answering the phone gave him a thrill. He
absolutely loved it. Still, if you’re going to do a job, you’ve got to do it right. “If you aren’t going to take a message,” I scolded him, “then don’t pick up the phone. How would you like it if I didn’t take a message for you?”
I remember girlfriends calling and saying, “Some guy answered when I called earlier.”
“It was John.”
“Shut the fuck up. It was not.”
“Yes, it was him. He loves playing receptionist.”
I understood the appeal of the mundane task: it offered John an escape, a rare moment of anonymity. He was at the height of his fame now that he had launched a magazine at the heart of the cultural conversation. Wherever he and George went, everyone else wanted to follow.
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