Fueled by the adrenaline that comes with fear, I threw on some clothes, ran downstairs, and flagged the sole cab driving up Third Avenue at the desolate hour of 1:30 a.m. I took the taxi back uptown to the office, my heart pounding for the entire ride. I tore out of the cab, into the building, and past security, who knew me well because I’d been to the office so often after hours. I ran directly to the copier, looked in, and to my great relief, found absolutely nothing. To put my mind fully at ease, I checked with the guard that nobody had come in after Carolyn and I left. I went home, got back in bed, and woke up after only a few hours of sleep, right back on high alert.
As John’s assistant, I already had a long list of things that gave me insomnia: the next George cover getting leaked; my having to track down someone John wanted to interview for an upcoming issue; the person who would be mad at me that week for having to say, “No, I’m sorry. John can’t do that.” But during the lead-up to the wedding, I lived in a constant state of fear that I would somehow let the news slip.
I never told anybody about their plans—not my parents, not Matt, not Michele, or even Frank, with whom I shared absolutely everything. This news was too big. After Carolyn and John settled on a location and date, I didn’t even let myself think about it too often. I didn’t want that information front and center in my brain, ready to come out at the wrong time to the wrong person.
Since a big part of my job was dealing with the media, I tried to imagine what their marrying would mean to the outside world. My perspective on the situation was skewed, because John and Carolyn were so familiar to me. My instinct, when I thought about them getting married, was to wonder about normal stuff, such as whether they would stay in the same apartment or what her dress would look like. Not how their wedding would play out in the press. I just couldn’t predict the impact of the news.
Certainly people—reporters, friends, media types—wanted to know if they were getting married. I was frequently asked that question. In the last couple of years of working for John, I mastered the art of being evasive. “Well, I think. Eventually,” I’d say. “But who knows?”
I had learned such nonchalant ambiguity—not the same as lying—from John, the master of putting people off without hurt feelings or aroused suspicions. He used that strategy often with the press, who refused to stay on point when they had a chance to ask him questions. The most frequent question (besides whether he was going to get married) was whether he planned to run for office. “I’m really happy here [at George],” he told USA Today. “I’m serving a larger purpose in bringing more people to learn about politics. . . . My horizons are clear for the next five years, and after that, I’ll sort of think about what the next horizon will be.”
When it came to the media, John never got rattled, not even when he went on Oprah to publicize George shortly after the magazine’s launch.
Sitting in the studio audience in Chicago during his appearance, I was nervous for John. Ironically, although he grew up in front of cameras, he’d never done national television, except for small segments on morning shows such as Today to publicize specific causes. But his being on Oprah was a big deal. In her introduction of him, Oprah used the word hunk. He’s going to hate that, I thought.
John came out wearing a dark suit and the audience went insane. The women jumped out of their seats and screamed as if the Beatles were about to perform. He waved to the audience and they went even crazier. “John, we got new chairs for you,” Oprah said, gushing like everyone else. Gross, I thought. John gave the talk-show host the same little bow that he politely offered any woman he met. His manners were always impeccable, whether he was at an employee’s birthday party or on national TV.
Despite Oprah’s adoration, she went down the track well worn by every other member of the media. After flashing a huge shot of him on-screen, coming out of the water in Hyannis, she asked how he’d respond to the charge of being an exhibitionist considering how often he was photographed shirtless.
“Not many people swim with their shirts on,” he answered.
The studio audience swooned.
“How do you feel when people call you a hunk?”
“There are worse things people can say about you.”
Women giggled.
“Who intimidates you?”
“Well, you do right now.”
Applause.
Just like he did at the George press conference, he answered every question, but on his terms. He was smart about it and created humor in his evasion of the questions. Although John was an editor in chief, the most valuable PR lessons I learned were from him, ones I still use today.
John never did press without a clear idea of why he was doing it. He didn’t go on Larry King Live or Oprah to do an interview; he went on to talk about George or his current cause. But he understood that the personal questions were in service of that mission, which helped him keep any aggravation in perspective. In the same vein, he never copped an attitude once he had agreed to an interview. He never gave Oprah or anyone else a list of questions not to ask him. If you don’t want to be asked questions, then don’t go on Oprah, he reasoned.
John knew you had to give a little to get a little when it came to publicity, and he kept his expectations realistic. But perhaps the most important aspect to his success with the media was that John wasn’t afraid of being caught off guard. “Nothing is as good or bad as it seems in the moment,” he told me. His example gave me perspective that I didn’t always have because of my own emotional nature. By watching John, I became more levelheaded in my reactions and, as a result, was better able to deal with a wide range of situations. It was one of the best lessons he ever taught me.
After Oprah interviewed John that afternoon and they left the stage, I was sitting in the studio audience with George’s executive editor, Biz Mitchell, when Oprah reappeared and said, “Is there a RoseMarie Terenzio and Biz Mitchell in the audience? John would like to see you.” We raised our hands, but so did every other woman in the room.
Escorted by a battalion of assistants, Biz and I made our way to the green room, which was decorated with old-fashioned barber chairs. “This place is great,” I said to one of Oprah’s army. “I know, isn’t it?” the young woman said. “It’s all Oprah’s vision.” “Yes,” another interjected. “She picked out everything. Doesn’t she have the best taste?” The women’s enthusiasm made me wonder how much Kool-Aid they’d had that day or if the green room was bugged.
John walked in, looking tired but happy.
“You did really well,” I said.
“That’s nice of you to say.”
John always said that when he was embarrassed (such as in the rare moments I complimented him on his suit or tie). He hated to talk about his TV appearances after the fact. Once they were done, so was he.
When Oprah walked into the green room, her acolytes smiled and stood up straighter. Even John seemed shocked by the sycophancy.
John introduced us. “This is RoseMarie,” he said. Oprah shook my hand and replied, “You must be the helper.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said with all the energy of a moody teenager.
Oprah was unfazed, but her staffers were clearly having heart attacks. They all gave me dirty looks, but I knew John got a kick out of my bad attitude. I didn’t treat Oprah any differently than I treated John. Still, he gave me shit about it in the parking lot.
“Nice, Rosie, way to step off on Oprah.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He laughed. “Do you think any of Oprah’s people tell her to shut up?”
“No, but they should.”
In the weeks leading up to John and Carolyn’s wedding, the lessons I learned from John came in handy. I was really tense from pretending everything was business as usual at the magazine while coordinating the details of a top-secret event. To keep it together, I told myself that this was just two people getting married (adopting John’s no-drama attitude), even though the question of their relationship status of
ten made headlines.
That’s why I thanked God when a rumor that John and Carolyn had broken up began circulating right before the big day. It was perfect. The speculation was based on their not being spotted out together for a couple of weeks—ironically, a function of being busy with the wedding preparations. I laughed out loud at an item that said Carolyn had been seen in a Paris café, sharing a romantic moment with a new mystery man. Her date turned out to be her good friend the designer Narciso Rodriguez, whom she’d met overseas for a wedding gown fitting.
Despite the moment of relief the news of their breakup afforded me, I quickly returned to being a nervous wreck. I was working late every night at the magazine, trying to get John to sign off on a million decisions before he left for three weeks for the wedding and honeymoon. Understandably, John was very distracted, which made my task that much harder.
As far as I knew, the rest of the magazine staff didn’t have a clue about the wedding. They knew he was leaving for a trip but thought it was a kayaking vacation in Turkey. So I had to watch what I said around the office, which wasn’t a problem except when I was talking on the phone to the innkeepers on Cumberland Island.
To keep the true subject of our conversations secret, we referred to the event as Nicole Miller’s wedding. Why I would be talking about Nicole Miller’s wedding doesn’t make much sense now, and I’m sure if anyone at George paid attention to my phone conversations, they would have thought I was insane—or moonlighting as a wedding planner. As long as the George staff was kept in the dark about the real wedding, though, I didn’t care what they thought.
By the time I watched Carolyn finish packing for her trip to Georgia, I didn’t know who was more anxious, her or me. We went over and over the details as she placed perfectly folded shirts and accessories divided into ziplock bags into her suitcase. With every possible emergency anticipated and prepared for, she zipped up her bags and we headed downstairs, where a car waited to take her to the airport. The driver popped the trunk, threw her suitcases in, and opened the door for Carolyn, who looked elegant in a pair of brown corduroys, a black turtleneck, and black flats. Before getting inside, she turned to me, looking sad and concerned.
“I feel really bad, like I’m leaving you behind,” Carolyn said.
She and I had discussed my attending the wedding, but I had decided not to go. If I were in Georgia, it would be obvious that something was up. As much as I would have liked to go as her and John’s friend, I needed to stay in New York as their assistant, in case anything went wrong.
“I really appreciate that, but don’t worry about it,” I said to Carolyn before she got in the car. “I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“That came out the wrong way,” I added quickly.
“What if the wine doesn’t show?”
“It’ll show,” I reassured her.
Once I saw her off to the airport, I returned home and made a call about the wine. Better safe than sorry.
While I was confirming the last of the travel arrangements, I thought about how the guest list was impossibly small. Only forty of their closest friends and family members were invited. For most people, that would be a tough number to stick to, but for them, it was ridiculous.
A lot of folks were going to be upset after the news broke. Being snubbed would be a big deal to them. Not going was a big deal to me—even though I was the one who’d decided it was for the best. Still, I was supposed to be in the couple’s inner circle. And the thought of those who already doubted my position saying “How close to them could Rose be if she wasn’t at their wedding?” really bugged me.
The truth is, I didn’t want to go because the wedding was so small that some of their closest friends weren’t invited. I worked for them, so it would have pissed a lot of people off—and I had enough of that in my job.
Once John and Carolyn left for Georgia, I went from being on edge to being completely paranoid. I felt as if the whole success—or failure—of the mission was on my shoulders. Of course, that wasn’t true. The intricate plan that Carolyn had begun five months prior was in place, and my sole responsibility now was to tie up loose ends and keep my mouth shut. Still, it was a burden that at times felt too big.
At the office, when someone casually tossed off a question such as “Where’s John going again?” I became suspicious. They’re fishing, I thought. They know. I also took my anxiety out on my friends—particularly Michele and Frank. The people you feel closest to always get the brunt of it, because you know you can get away with it. No matter how lousy I acted toward Michele and Frank, I knew they’d still love me the next day. But I’ll admit, I did test their limits.
The Thursday before the wedding, I had made a plan to meet Michele after work and wound up leaving her sitting by herself in a bar for over an hour. When I finally walked in, instead of apologizing, I acted like I was the one who’d been inconvenienced. Having spent the last couple of hours trying to coordinate plane reservations and ferry trips for guests, I was wound tight.
“You couldn’t possibly understand how stressful my life is,” I said to Michele.
“You’re right. I can’t, because you don’t tell me what’s going on,” she said.
Faced with her genuine concern, I realized how inconsiderate I’d been and decided to make a radical departure from my paranoid self. I told Michele the secret.
Immediately, I felt unburdened. In an instant, she recognized the strain I’d been under for the last few weeks and offered me the comfort I’d been craving. I didn’t worry, either, because I knew Michele wouldn’t breathe the news. In fact, the next day, she called me very early in the morning because she hadn’t been able to sleep.
“Now that I know, I’m nervous, too,” she said.
The only person to whom I didn’t betray any sign of nerves was Carolyn. She and I talked about fifteen million times in between her arriving on Cumberland Island and the wedding. Her questions were breezy enough—discussing the reservations and coordinating times for the guests’ departures—and my answers were reassuring: everything was under control and would turn out fine.
By late afternoon on the Friday before the ceremony, I started to loosen up. The press had yet to call me with questions about a wedding, so in my mind, we were in the clear. At that point, even if the media did get wind of John and Carolyn’s plans, by the time the papers went to press (this was the pre-Internet era), the wedding already would have happened. Of course, television could still be a problem—but a security detail ensured only the guests were allowed on the private island.
That evening, while the guests on Cumberland Island were enjoying cocktails, I sat in my apartment unable to share the news with anyone. I have to get out of here, I thought. The four walls, the quiet, were getting to me. I decided to flee to my parents’ house. I could check my voice mail easily enough from there, and I didn’t need to sit by the phone anyway, since the statement and details of John and Carolyn’s marriage were being released by Ted Kennedy’s office (thankfully, they’d be dealing with the aftermath).
The next day, after eating a big lunch with my parents, I checked my voice mail for the hundredth time that day and heard a panicked message from Matt Berman and Biz Mitchell. I called them back immediately.
There was a problem: After Jack Nicholson agreed to appear as dirty Santa Claus (instead of Marlon Brando), with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, on the cover of George’s holiday issue, a photo shoot was set for the Saturday of the wedding. But the actor never showed up to the studio, and the crew couldn’t reach him or his assistant. Biz and Matt had resorted to driving around New York City, trying to find the set where Jack was filming his latest movie.
“We need John to call him,” Matt said.
I cringed. “Sorry, he can’t. He’s totally unavailable.”
“Can’t you just call him? We aren’t going to have a cover. This is an emergency.”
They were panicked, and I felt horrible. But the
re was nothing I could do. I couldn’t call John on his wedding day because of a problem with Jack Nicholson. John wouldn’t have considered the situation an emergency.
“I can’t reach him today,” I said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry, guys.”
Biz and Matt never did find Jack Nicholson and, I’m sure, cursed me for refusing to call John (we wound up putting Woody Harrelson in angel wings on the cover). But they soon found out, along with the rest of the world, why John was unreachable on Saturday. The wedding went off without a hitch, and on Sunday—rather than the news of their marriage being announced in a formal press release to the AP as planned—Patrick Kennedy, who hadn’t been invited to the wedding, blurted out at a Democratic fund-raiser, “My cousin John did tie the knot yesterday.”
No sooner had the words come out of his mouth Sunday than my home phone lit up with incoming calls from all over the world. I received fifty-three voice mail messages in one hour. While I listened to the phone ring over and over, the bulk of the calls completely overloaded my answering machine and broke it. I called my contact in Teddy’s office and informed her of the call volume; we laughed about Patrick’s surprise press conference, and I wished her luck.
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