Fairy Tale Interrupted (14 page)

“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.

Especially when we had a party.

Waiting outside the Art Institute of Chicago for John to arrive for the
George
party at the 1996 Democratic National Convention, I could only think,
What have we done?
On the steps, a million amped-up paparazzi, protestors, and gawkers congregated to get a glimpse of John and other celebrities, such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Hillary Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, and Chris Rock.

After the invitations for the party went out, the office phones didn’t stop ringing for days. People went nuts trying to get on the list, begging and offering bribes: a weeklong stay at a four-star hotel, a year’s supply of haircuts, cases of champagne, new clothes, money. Despite our efforts to keep the number of guests down, it ballooned from a couple of hundred to more than a thousand in what promised to be the hottest event at the convention. And now I was sweating the reality of the mob.

When John arrived, the crowd went wild, waving posters, shouting, and beeping car horns, as if they were at a parade. Flashes from cameras, personal and professional, lit up the night. He hopped out of the car, debonairly buttoned his jacket, and in a few confident strides, stood next to me.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said as if we were headed to the movies or something equally ordinary. “You look nice.”

I smiled but was dying inside with worry that John was going to hate this huge, unruly party—and
me
for not being able to control it. “John, this is crazy,” I said, right before we walked through the doors.

“This is exactly what we want,” he said. “We’re the biggest game in town tonight.”

The museum’s enormous hall was so packed it felt claustrophobic. And John instantly became the center of the sea of people. News of his arrival spread through the building like wildfire, and everyone tried to move closer to him. They wanted photos or a word or, worse, to touch him. I clutched his arm in alarm and started pushing through the mob scene, yanking young women away.

I’d never seen a crowd swarm one person and follow him throughout a building. There were far too many people (and the people were way too into it) for me to offer any real protection. Partygoers started jumping over one another to get a photo.
If this crowd turns, we’re dead in one second,
I thought.

“Are you okay?” I asked John.

“Yup.”

The two hours that John spent doing rounds at the party were some of the worst of my life. I had worn a spaghetti-strap dress, and the morning after the event, my back was covered in bruises from where I was poked and prodded.

By the time Hillary Clinton and Senator Ted Kennedy showed up to the museum, fire marshals were right on their heels. We had broken every code in the book, and they were going to shut down that shit show.

The marshals were distracted long enough for the in-house party photographer to get a shot of Hillary, Teddy, and John together. After the picture was snapped, John left and the fire officials closed the party.

But they needn’t have bothered. As soon as John walked out, the crowd completely died down. It was nearly instantaneous. I don’t know how or why, but people could sense that he was gone. It was as if Elvis left the building and nobody cared anymore.

As soon as the party ended, the fun started for me. Because of my job, I had tickets to the best events that weekend (even standing near a newly skinny Oprah at one point).

I had gone from being a nobody who rode the express bus into Manhattan from the Bronx to someone with a pass to places and parties where even the rich and powerful were denied entry. The A-list treatment I received as John’s personal assistant was astounding—and addictive.

Nothing was off-limits, from a VIP pass for the vice president’s convention speech to Versace shoes. Even when I broke my favorite heels—black patent-leather Versace sling-backs with an embossed lace pattern that Carolyn had bought for me—I had a solution, thanks to my proximity to John.

I thought the shoes were destroyed after the heel broke while I was dancing to Stevie Wonder (live) at a benefit for the Robin Hood Foundation. One of the Lucite heels cracked, revealing the metal rod at its center. I tried to reattach the broken piece myself with Krazy Glue, but when I put weight on the heel, the piece became dislodged again. I brought it to my local shoe guy, who shook his head no; then to one of the fancy midtown shoe-repair places that service the Manolo
Blahnik set. I was ready to pay through the nose, anything to get those beauties back. But no, they confirmed, the heel couldn’t be fixed.

Heavy with sadness and resignation (I’d had a lot of fun in those heels), I tucked the shopping bag holding the shoes under my desk. But I couldn’t let go. I had one more idea. I decided to call the PR department at Versace.

“Hi, it’s RoseMarie from John Kennedy’s office,” I said. After explaining my predicament, I asked, “Is there any way you can fix my shoe?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t fix it. And we don’t carry that style anymore. I’m so sorry,” the person said. “You can go to the Fifth Avenue store and pick out any pair of shoes you want as a replacement. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming, RoseMarie.”

“Really?”

“It’s the least we can do.”

“Okay. Thanks!”

It was ridiculous. I could call anyone on the planet, and all I had to say were those seven magic words—“Hi, it’s RoseMarie from John Kennedy’s office”—and not only would I get right through or receive a call back, but the person would move heaven and earth to help me. Fashion houses, restaurant owners, club promoters, movie publicists. Anyone.

I quickly learned to use John’s influence to get into the best locales in the city, such as Moomba, the restaurant and lounge where media moguls, models, and movie stars made the news that filled the gossip pages the next day.

Although John was never going to step foot in Moomba (Jennifer Lopez, Gwyneth Paltrow, or Puff Daddy bouncing
to house music wasn’t exactly his scene), the club’s publicist Lizzie Grubman was always cool with me. I never had trouble skipping the line of hopeful partiers outside the downtown hot spot, even when the club hosted a special event for the Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter and first baseman Tino Martinez. I knew my niece, a rabid Yankees fan, would absolutely freak out if she could meet a few members of the team—especially Tino, her favorite. When the handsome baseball players gave her hugs and posed for pictures (even though they had no idea who we were), it was my niece’s version of a Cinderella moment.

I never traded favors or made any promise of payback involving John when I accepted invitations, and I thought carefully before making personal requests, not wanting to compromise my boss’s reputation. But when Pearl Jam came to town and sold out Madison Square Garden in about four seconds, I had to ask. They were one of my favorite bands, and I had never seen them live. I asked John if I could use his name to get tickets from the record company. “Yeah, I want to go, too,” he said. “Get four tickets. But we have to pay for them.” John and Carolyn never took anything—tickets, clothes, or dinner at a restaurant—for free.

“No problem,” the rep at the record company said when I called. “Just fax me the request with the night you want to go and how many tickets you need.”

Easy as dialing the phone, we got four tickets with backstage passes to the hottest concert in town. I invited my friend Gary and a
George
editor, a big Pearl Jam fan with whom I was at loggerheads, in an attempt at a truce. The fourth ticket was for John, who said he’d meet us at the concert, since he had an
engagement earlier in the evening. I practically pinned his ticket to his lapel before he left the office that night, because I didn’t want him to lose it.

The three of us went nuts when we got to our seats at the Garden. I had never been so close to any performance. I turned around to survey the crowd, and my heart stopped for a second: Joey sat three rows behind us. Trying to be mature, I went back to say a quick hi before the show started. He was in a relationship with Pearl Jam’s manager—which might have ruined my night if his seats weren’t behind mine. I had better seats. Awesome.

Pearl Jam did not disappoint. We rocked through the first set, and with each song I got more excited at the opportunity to meet the band’s front man, Eddie Vedder, backstage. But three-quarters of the way through the show, John still hadn’t arrived, and I didn’t feel comfortable going backstage without him. So I left right after “Better Man,” one of my favorite songs, to check my answering machine. There was a message from John: “Sorry, Rosie, I thought I could get there, but I can’t. Hope you have a great time.”

I returned to our seats and broke the news to the guys. My friend Gary might have been the only person who loved Eddie Vedder more than I did. But I absolutely could not say to Eddie, “Sorry, John F. Kennedy Jr. couldn’t make it. But I’m his assistant, RoseMarie.” Get out of here.

While I was just as disappointed as the boys that we wouldn’t be coming in physical contact with a rock god, I would never dream of giving John a hard time about flaking. (Besides, he would have thought I was ridiculous for not using the backstage passes just because he couldn’t make it.) Not only
did my job offer all those amazing perks but, on top of that, John was incredibly generous to me.

When I casually brought up the idea of taking a vacation, he insisted I use his house in Hyannis for a week in August.

“Nobody will be there except for Provi,” John said. “She makes amazing rum daiquiris with fresh lime.”

Provi had worked for John’s father when he was a senator, and then for his mom, so she was like part of the family.

“You can bring a friend,” he said.

“Promise you won’t show up?” I said, teasing.

I invited my best girlfriend, Michele Ammon, who was always up for an adventure. She couldn’t get over our luck at scoring a free vacation. I was a little unsure about what to expect. Should I bring food and wine? What did people wear in Hyannis? Carolyn told me to chill out and not bring anything except my bathing suit.

When we arrived in Hyannis, Michele and I got lost for a while, tooling around in our rental car while searching for the gate to John’s house. I don’t know if we were expecting a big gold sign with
Kennedy
embossed on it or what, but the house didn’t stand out in any way. It was a nice place, but very simple, with two small, cute bedrooms and a master bedroom upstairs and one bedroom downstairs, a cozy, warm kitchen, and a big porch out front—not unlike a typical beach rental for a normal family.

The real standout was Provi, a small, adorable Latin woman who was so spicy she immediately became part of our crew. Because she had been employed by the Kennedys for so long, I imagined her as an old lady we would have to tiptoe around. Instead, she was always up for a party.

When Michele and I returned in the afternoon from a
glorious day at the beach, rum daiquiris and a cheese plate were waiting for us on the porch.

“Okay, girls, time to shower and get ready for dinner,” Provi said when we were done with cocktails.

Freshly showered and changed, we came downstairs to a magnificent meal of roast chicken, peppers, and rice—nothing opulent, but always a proper dinner with wine and cloth napkins. A sense of occasion perpetually surrounded the house in Hyannis.

After dinner, we went into the living room or outside on the porch to sit, talk, and sip our wine. We hashed out everything with Provi: current events, work, boys—you name it. Then we went to bed and did it all over again the next day.

Every summer, John would tell me, “Rosie, this is your week in Hyannis.” Not only had I become someone who owned custom-made suits, now I vacationed on the Cape. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

John and Carolyn were effortlessly generous year-round, but Christmas was particularly overwhelming. The day before the holiday break was business as usual at
George
—for about five minutes. Everyone went into their offices, and then immediately shot back out, acting like six-year-olds on Christmas morning. Carolyn had spent a ton of time and money finding the perfect personal gift for each member of the staff. I tried to talk her out of it when she told me her plan, but she had gone ahead and scoured stores and catalogs for just the thing each person wanted: a top-of-the-line juicer for the vegetarian; an original print from the famous photographer Weegee for Matt Berman; engraved pens; beautiful handbags. Her perfectionism made for a lot of happy people.

The staff was comparing loot with big smiles on their faces when I heard John calling me.

“
Psst.
Hey, Rosie, get over here.”

I walked over to my desk where he was watching the group.

“You going home for the holidays? ‘It’s a long way to Staten Island,’” he sang to the tune of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”

“I’m not from Staten Island,” I protested. “What are you doing? Do you have a coach riding you up and down Fifth Avenue for Christmas?”