Fairy Tale Interrupted

by Rosemarie Terenzio

  Holy shit.

  Was he kidding me? I read the accompanying note.

  The money was awesome, but the note was even better. I had no way of knowing how to handle an auction, and I felt as though he didn’t get that. But of course, he wound up acknowledging it with the most thoughtful, low-key, classy thank-you I could ever imagine receiving. Even when we bickered, John knew I appreciated everything he did for me and that I always had his back.

  John’s life and my life were intertwined in many ways. Working for him, I was his gatekeeper, controlling access to someone whom everyone wanted time with. I protected him and his time from people and things that weren’t in his best interest. As a friend, my role wasn’t all that different, except that I made him laugh. He teased me ruthlessly, and I gave it right back to him. He loved that I treated him like a normal person and not like JFK Jr. As his loyal assistant and friend, I would have done anything for him. Even though I never expected anything more than a paycheck, John gave me opportunities that changed my life forever, taking me on the most dramatic journey a girl in New York City could ever dream of. Especially a girl like me.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Two types of people exist in this world: those who are obsessed with the Kennedys and those who aren’t. My big Italian family from the Bronx sat squarely in the latter camp. My dad, a staunch Republican, had no patience for the family synonymous with the Democratic Party. And my mom was too busy to care about politics on any side of the aisle at all.

  Obviously, I understood why it created a major stir when John F. Kennedy Jr. first started calling the offices of the Manhattan public relations firm where I worked, PR/NY, but it didn’t give me the same thrill as it did Liz, the office manager, and Tricia, the receptionist, who would giggle and exchange meaningful glances whenever he was on the line. To me John was just a political type; I would have been more interested in meeting his celebrity girlfriend Daryl Hannah.

  It was funny to see Liz and Tricia get excited about anything. The two pretty hipsters shared a blasé attitude toward most aspects of life, including work. But I saw a hint of triumph on the face of whoever got to shout “John’s on the phone” to Michael Berman, cofounder of the firm and the man who gave me the best job I’d ever had.

  Michael started PR/NY after convincing his partner, Will Steere—whom he met while both were at the big international PR firm Burson-Marsteller—to take a chunk of Burson’s business and go out on their own. During my interview in the office, decorated with that brand of sleek minimalism that makes you feel fat and poor, I thought, I’m definitely not sophisticated enough for this. But Michael was able to get past my outer-borough accent—and my outfit, a red pleated skirt and black-and-white polka-dot blouse that made me look as if someone threw me into a sales rack at Strawberry, spun me around, and set me loose.

  Working at PR/NY was so different from my last job as a junior-level publicist at a midtown PR company that mainly worked with book publishers, where our offices were small and dingy and the big perk was getting to charge ten dollars a week at the local deli. Will and Michael, meanwhile, were young, rich, and good-looking.

  Michael, in his jeans, nice shirts, and ever-present tan, ate at Nobu, ran with a celebrity crowd, and dated a well-known interior decorator. Michael could talk to anyone about anything, and he drove the business aspect of PR/NY because he was great at strategy. I worked harder than anyone else in the office to prove to him that I belonged there, that he hadn’t made a mistake in taking a chance on me. If Will needed me to run an errand, I was on it. When Michael told me to revise a press release twenty times, I did it without attitude.

  So when JFK Jr. called the office, to me it was no different from Christopher Reeve or any other celebrity calling for Michael. Other than enjoying watching Liz and Tricia get silly at the sound of his voice, I didn’t give him much thought until the day he unexpectedly arrived at PR/NY.

  Without knowing who was waiting, I buzzed him in, as I always did when someone rang the bell, and punched in the code to open the door. But as I tugged on the handle, he was pulling on the other side, so neither of us could open it. We both released the door, and I reentered the code, then stood back and waited for the person to open the door. Nothing. Oh God, I thought. This isn’t that complicated. I punched in the code one more time and pulled, just as he decided to pull yet again.

  “You have to let go of the knob,” I said, getting more frustrated.

  “Sorry,” came the muted reply.

  Once again I entered the code and was finally able to open the door, discovering to my horror that I had just snapped at John F. Kennedy Jr.

  “Hi,” he said casually.

  “Hi.”

  He was much better looking in person than in any photograph of him I’d ever seen—and he didn’t exactly photograph poorly. Wearing a court-jester-type knit hat, John was accompanied by a large, drooling German shepherd that looked sad and not too friendly.

  “Is Michael here?” John asked. Although I felt like dying, I pulled myself together and walked John inside. The previous summer, John had left the assistant district attorney position he’d held for four years, and he first started coming into the PR/NY office about once a week, and then every other day, sometimes more. By the spring of 1994, it was as if he and his slightly demented rescue dog, Sam, worked at PR/NY—only none of the staff, except for Michael, knew what he was doing there. Even Will had no idea. But you didn’t ask Michael anything, even if you co-owned the company. Discretion was his stock-in-trade.

  Will was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican raised in the wealthy Connecticut town of Darien, and every day he wore a perfect suit and a different Hermès tie, which stood out against the low-key vibe in the office. One of my first days on the job, I asked him if he had an important client meeting. He looked at me like he didn’t understand the question, as if that were the only proper way to dress.

  Will seemed to feel it was his political duty to get a rise out of John, and he loved to greet John with a condescending “Hey, Junior!” anytime he walked in the door. John refused to take the bait, and instead nodded hello and headed into the conference room with Michael.

  Because Michael and John were both on the board of Naked Angels—a nonprofit theater company in New York supported by celebrities such as Marisa Tomei and Sarah Jessica Parker—Liz, Tricia, and I decided the most obvious explanation for their meetings was that they were planning a fund-raiser. But their conversations often became heated; we’d see John gesticulating wildly, water bottle in hand, through the slightly open door. And they were always careful to collect the papers spread across the big wooden table before they left the conference room. I was as curious as the next person but figured John was none of my business. That is, until he made himself my business.

  A few months after John had become a regular at the office, I came into work one morning really hurting. The night before, I’d made the mistake of drinking free cocktails at a launch party for a start-up company that delivered anything—movies, condoms, ice cream—to your apartment day or night. As usual, Frank was along for the ride.

  I met Frank Giordano, my soul mate, in college, where it was love at first sight. I was walking out of the cafeteria when I spotted a gorgeous guy—six foot two, thick hair, dark-brown eyes—wearing all white and propped against a yellow Riviera. Frank knew the effect his stunning appearance had on people and often used it, almost comically, to his advantage. With him, nothing was off-limits.

  We connected instantly, and from that moment on, we were completely inseparable. We did everything together, except have sex. I had never met anyone like him: gorgeous, charismatic, a sweet soul. Hardly ever in a bad mood, Frank was always on a mission to make sure everyone around him was having a good time. After college, I moved with Frank into his mother’s home, a gigantic house in Bronxville, New York, until I got the call every New Yorker dreams about, one asking if I’d be interested in a rent-stabilized apartment. Frank convinced me to take
the place (he wasn’t only my best friend and confidant but also my real estate broker) even though it was the most vile, dank, dark three hundred square feet of grime I had ever seen. He promised he would transform the place for me, and he did, stripping and bleaching the floors and repainting. By the time I moved in, the walls were a crisp white and the wood floor felt smooth beneath my feet. There was a little kitchen, a built-in bookcase, a bed, and a bathroom—all for me.

  I had no idea what to do with all this privacy. Growing up in a two-story house on Garfield Street crammed with my mom, dad, great-grandmother, grandma, older sisters Anita, Andrea, and Amy, and two dogs, I wasn’t used to alone time. Someone was always in the bathroom, on the couch, or in front of the fridge. Outside wasn’t much better, with neighbors hanging out their windows and screaming at one another.

  But Frank didn’t give me a chance to feel lonely. As soon as the apartment was ready, he called all our friends and told them to come over to my new place. I cranked the stereo that Michael and Will had bought me as a housewarming gift and poured everyone drinks before we headed out for a night of dancing at Rouge. When we called it quits around 4:00 a.m., I didn’t have to wait for a train at Grand Central or have Frank drive me home. We just hopped in a cab and within minutes were in my new apartment. As far as I was concerned, I had arrived.

  Frank, always my first call in the morning and last call at night, loved my new life even more than I did. He came as my date to many events, like the launch party for the Manhattan delivery service, where we drank several Speedy Deliveries, the party’s signature cocktail, and ended up at a gay bar drinking margaritas.

  After mixing way too much booze, the next morning I tried in vain to settle my queasy stomach and pounding head with a large coffee from the cart outside the office building. Wearing a pair of extra-large sunglasses, I could smell the alcohol wafting from my pores. The worst part: it was only Monday. (Frank and I loved going out on Sunday nights, because that’s when people who lived in the city went out.) I couldn’t imagine getting through the morning, let alone the week.

  All I wanted to do was get into the cozy confines of my office and hide out for the rest of the day. My love affair with my office had started the minute I arrived at PR/NY. The view was of the building’s air shaft, but its location at the back of the building gave it a snug quality, where a girl could feel safe calling her friends to bitch about bad dates, have a good cry when she lost a client or, like this morning, nurse a particularly bruising hangover.

  As I passed through reception, the light streaming in the windows and bouncing off the white walls felt downright debilitating. Making a beeline for my office, I kept my sunglasses on and held on to my coffee as if it were a life raft. I relaxed a bit at the thought of momentarily resting my head on my desk, and opened the door to my cozy little office.

  What the . . . ?

  John and a man I didn’t recognize were piling my possessions into a cardboard moving box. Adrenaline surged through my body, instantly curing my hangover. No longer weary or nauseous, I was mad—and confused.

  “Oh, hey—” John said.

  “Excuse me,” I said, cutting him off. “What are you doing? And who are you?” I pointed at the handsome, silver-haired man in jeans and a fitted T-shirt who was wielding an industrial vacuum cleaner like a pro.

  “This is Effie. He works for me and my family, helping with—”

  “Why is he touching my stuff?”

  I whipped off my sunglasses and got into a staring match with Effie.

  “Michael said it was okay for me to move in here,” John said.

  “Well, it’s not okay,” I said, spinning around to address him directly. That’s when I noticed that not only had they taken down my bulletin board without asking but, in the process, they had ripped one of my most treasured possessions: my Howard Stern head shot. I was crushed.

  I thought Howard was a god. I admired how he disguised intelligent dialogue about political and social issues as a radio show about farts and strippers. Plus, he made me laugh out loud every single morning. Brilliant, unpretentious, and funny, Howard spoke my language. And anyone who knew me knew I loved him. That’s why a colleague from my old job asked his friend, a producer at K-Rock, where Howard did his show, for the irreplaceable head shot, which was now ruined.

  “We can figure this out,” John said.

  “Figure this out? Clearly we’re not figuring out anything, because you have already packed everything up,” I said.

  “I’m sure we can find some sort of solution,” he said.

  “I don’t know why you need an office, anyway. You don’t even have a job.”

  “Michael!” John said loudly.

  “Maybe you get away with this everywhere else you go, but not here.”

  “Michael!”

  Despite my show of bravado, insecurity welled up inside me at the realization that somebody more important could just walk in and take everything away from me—my amazing office, job, and new life in Manhattan. I should have been prepared for this. But I wasn’t ready for defeat.

  Michael shouted for me to get into his office. I left John and his butler boxing up my life and slowly took the ten steps to Michael’s office. This was serious. No one ever went in there except to have their review. He was the kind of boss who left you alone. He always had your back, even if a client was unhappy, but he wasn’t a micromanager. Instead, he taught by example about what worked and what didn’t in PR.

  What the hell had I been thinking, telling off John F. Kennedy Jr.? Was I insane? Oh well, I thought. My time at PR/NY was fun while it lasted. . . . Starbucks, here I come.

  I stepped into Michael’s immaculate office. He sat behind his sleek desk, with all his perfect pens arranged in an elegant leather cup and a box of wheat grass placed neatly in the corner. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he had a big smirk on his face. He wasn’t angry; in fact, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drama. Michael never kissed John’s ass and was apparently pleased to see someone following his example.

  “You know, Rose,” Michael said, amused. “You could be arrested in some states for the way you just spoke to him.”

  “Why is he taking my office?” I whined.

  “He’s working with me now. Let’s be realistic. You really think I’m going to give him the smaller office? You’re going to be just fine. What he’s doing isn’t infringing on your turf. In fact, it has nothing to do with you. So let’s get on with it.”

  I got the message and left his office, grateful to still have my job. Even though Michael had found my outburst funny, I knew I had to keep my Italian temper in check, since it could get me in a lot of trouble. If I got into a fight with a guy I was dating, I had no problem walking out and leaving him in a restaurant. If I didn’t like what somebody was saying to me on the phone, I hung up. During one particularly heated fight with Frank at his apartment, I pulled everything he owned off his bookshelves and dumped a garbage bag of clothes he’d left at my house in a heap on the floor. I don’t remember exactly what triggered the blowup, but I ransacked his place; it looked like a crime scene when I was done with it.

  My anger issues were the by-product of a tense childhood in a chaotic environment that was ready to explode at any moment. And the woman holding the lighter to the powder keg was Marion, my Sicilian mother. Talk about an Italian temper.

  My mother was usually working two jobs, carrying the family’s financial load while trying to raise four kids in direct opposition to the way she was raised. My grandparents were not exactly stellar parents, and when they split up, my mother was bounced around like the kid no one wanted. She was determined to do a better job with her kids, and that was a huge amount of pressure. My sisters, Anita, Andrea, and Amy, are older than me by seventeen, ten, and four years, respectively; they helped raise me and were always much better at dealing with our explosive household than I was.

  When I was six years old, I made the mistake of complaining about my Chr
istmas gifts. I had actually received something I loved, a doll that blinked her eyes when I moved her. My aunt Rita always bought me a doll for Christmas because she knew how much I loved them. My other gifts were all practical—socks, sweaters, shoes—so the baby was my big present. But the day after Christmas is always a major comedown, and like many kids, I was poised for a meltdown when I dragged myself and my new doll into the kitchen and announced that I had nothing to play with. I whined and cried until my mom eventually had enough. She put down her cup of black coffee and took a deep pull on her Kool cigarette.

  “Enough already!” she yelled, then snatched the doll from my hands and slammed it against the wall, shattering its torso, twisting its limbs, and sending the blinking eyes into a permanently cockeyed stare. And then she threw the mangled body at me as I wept and begged her to stop.