Fairy Tale Interrupted (12 page)

Carolyn and I became such good friends that we would see each other a few nights a week and share the intimate details of our lives—“girl talk,” as John called it. Whenever John was traveling or was with his guy friends, we’d get together for dinner or drinks, usually bringing along a combination of my good friends, Frank and Michele, or hers, Gordon and Jessica. Soon enough our friends started hanging out separately from us, which only strengthened my connection to Carolyn.

John and I mainly saw each other at the office, where we worked long hours (most days, eating two out of three meals at our desks). While I socialized more with Carolyn, my relationship with John had grown outside
George
. He was always my boss, but we also did things that Carolyn wasn’t into, such as going to a Rolling Stones concert or a rehearsal for
Saturday Night Live
.

Whether I was talking about politics and current events with John, or Prada and Brad Pitt with Carolyn, most of my waking hours were spent with them. I worried that, once married, they would do everything together, changing the dynamic between the three of us that had become such a significant part of my life.

Carolyn was also worried marriage would change everything. She understood that the formality meant something, especially to John and his lifestyle; he was pretty old-fashioned, and given his place in the world, he couldn’t be single forever. But she
could have stayed engaged to and living with him indefinitely. Marriage came with obligations—familial, societal, even work-related—that had nothing to do with their relationship. As John’s girlfriend, she could skip a benefit or advertiser dinner without her absence being considered an insult. Once she was his wife, everything would have to be more carefully considered and planned. And she still felt too young to deal with all that pressure.

She wanted to enjoy the bubble of privacy surrounding her engagement, however long it might last. That’s why, in the beginning, she was nervous about going out in public with her ring. It had nothing to do with hesitancy over getting married and everything to do with privacy. But as time went on, she loosened up, wearing it on her right ring finger and saying it was simply a gift from John.

The bubble burst the Friday before Labor Day, when Carolyn called me early in the morning at my apartment after the
New York Post
ran a story about their engagement. The image of Carolyn had an inset blowup of her left hand, with the diamond and sapphire band circled for maximum effect. The story had an anonymous “good friend” confirming that they were getting married. I knew John and Carolyn had told only their closest confidants, and one of them had opened their mouth.

“What do you think we should do?” Carolyn asked.

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“No comment, as usual,” I said.

But when I got into the office later that morning, it was
anything but business as usual. Behind the closed door to John’s office, I could hear Michael freaking out. “This is going to take the thunder away from
George
.”

The official launch of
George,
with a massive press conference, was less than a week away. Michael was very concerned that the news about John’s engagement would eclipse their new magazine. Every single question would be about John’s getting married, while
George
would be a footnote buried at the end of the story.

“How did she let this get out?” Michael said, opening the office door and pacing between my desk and John’s.

“Who cares?” John says. “This is my life. I’m going to do what I’ve always done—ignore it and move on.”

Tensions were high as John and Michael continued to yell at each other. A lot was at stake. Meanwhile, Carolyn called me repeatedly to find out what was going on. It was a tug-of-war—John and Carolyn on one side, not wanting to break with their protocol of silence when it came to dealing with the press, and Michael on the other, arguing that these were special circumstances.

I slunk down in my chair as Michael and John hashed out a solution behind his closed office door. There was no other way around it: the rumor had to be addressed before the press conference, and the only way to do that without setting off a firestorm of unwanted attention was to deny the engagement.

Nobody was happy about the situation. John was completely unused to addressing his personal life in public, and both he and Michael were uncomfortable about lying to the media. It was a gamble, but Michael saw it as their best option.

They finally opened John’s office door, and Michael emerged holding a draft of the denial.

“If we are doing this, it can’t come from me,” he said. The person who issues a press release is often just as important as the contents of the release. It would have been weird for Michael,
George
’s publisher, to issue a statement about his business partner’s personal life.

“Maybe it should come from the senator’s office,” John offered. They mulled the proposition of Ted Kennedy’s team handling it, but in the end nixed the idea. John was now an editor in chief with his own staff. Having his uncle speak for him would have undermined his position.

Having it come from John was out of the question. And he didn’t want the denial to come from anyone in PR, worrying that it would give the false impression that he retained a personal publicist.

Michael, standing in John’s doorway, looked at me and said, “Maybe we should just have Rose do it.”

I quickly made myself busy at my desk. I didn’t know if he was serious, but I was nervous; my mind raced with the implications of issuing a statement to the press on John’s behalf. On one hand, speaking publicly for John was a tremendous responsibility. On the other, if bombarded with questions and calls, would I get flustered and say something I shouldn’t? One thing I knew for sure: if I fucked up, it would be a big blunder.

Michael and John stood for a moment considering the idea. I could feel their eyes on me, and looked up. Michael continued talking about me like I wasn’t there, reasoning that I wasn’t a publicist, so it would come off as a simple response from John’s
assistant, rather than a managed affair. John nodded pensively, and they continued to discuss me as they walked away. As soon as they were out of earshot, I picked up the phone and called Carolyn.

“
Now
what’s going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I think Michael wants me to issue the denial,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

I felt doleful calling her with these details. She wasn’t psyched about John publicly refuting their engagement, and going ahead with the charade would inevitably create a weird split between their real identity as a couple and their public image. The person who Carolyn woke up to every morning now had to say to the world that he wasn’t marrying her. Such an announcement would undoubtedly taint what should have been an extraordinary phase of their relationship.

“I want it to come from you,” Carolyn said. “If anyone is going to make a statement about my personal life, it should be you. You’re the only one I fucking trust.”

Knowing I had Carolyn’s blessing kept me from passing out when John and Michael gave me simple instructions to fax the statement to the Associated Press that afternoon.

“What should I say if people call?” I asked nervously.

“Just read the statement,” Michael said. “And tell them there’s nothing more than what’s in the statement.”

I nodded. I had issued press releases at PR/NY, but nothing like this. Just my asking what I should say
if
people called revealed that I didn’t comprehend the significance of the moment, or perhaps I was willfully in denial of what the next twenty-four hours would entail. I told myself I would fax this
brief release, which would appear in the paper, and we would all return to life as usual.

The staff had emptied out of
George
early in anticipation of the holiday weekend, leaving for fun in the Hamptons, Connecticut—anywhere but here. John led the charge, giving me a quick, tense “thank you” before heading out the door. Just like with the wallet he had neglected to bring to the airport, once the problem was out of his hands, John wanted to forget about it. Despite the interior monologue that accompanied my nod of acknowledgment—
No, thank
you.
Have a great weekend! Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Really—
I understood that he had flown past me because he felt awkward about the whole situation. When John wasn’t 100 percent behind something—as was the case with addressing his private life—he didn’t want to deal with it. He felt aggrieved not only because he was breaking protocol but also because of Carolyn. It sucked that he had to lie to the world about
this
.

Michael was the last to leave the office, stopping by my desk to wish me a good weekend and good luck. Shortly after, I checked the release for typos and hit send.

Once again, John Kennedy seems to be bearing the brunt of a slow news day. The stories circulating regarding an engagement are untrue. He is not engaged. While it is not our habit to comment on John’s personal life, this story seems to have taken on a life of its own, and we feel it necessary to respond.

I returned to my desk and waited for the calls to come. But nothing happened. Metaphorical crickets chirped as I sat
there for almost an hour, at first surprised, and then pleased.
Cool, nobody cares
. And why should they on the Friday before the last long weekend of summer? It was a nonstory. I decided to leave. If I hustled, I might be able to salvage some of my weekend.

Until . . . the phone started ringing. At least a dozen calls came through within the first fifteen minutes once the barrage began. Reporters, like prosecutors, asked variations on the same question—Is John getting married? I answered rapid-fire, scared I would say the wrong thing.

“Are they engaged?”

“He’s not engaged.”

“What’s the ring for?”

“It is just a gift. He’s not engaged.”

It was the same thing over and over.

“Are they planning to get engaged?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do they have any further comment?”

“No.”

“Where are they going to be this weekend?”

“You have to be kidding me.”

My friend A.J. Benza, who wrote a gossip column for the
Daily News,
called asking the same questions as all the other reporters. At least it was nice to hear a friendly voice. I met A.J. when I worked at PR/NY, and we bonded over the discovery that we were both Italian, were from the outer boroughs, and had a few friends in common. A.J. laid it on thick; he never missed an opportunity to seduce a female. Eventually we went out for a drink and became buddies. Now A.J., like any good columnist, tried to use his connections for a scoop.

“Come on, baby, how long have I known you?” he begged. “Just tell me if it’s true. I’m not going to write it.”

“A.J. Forget it.”

When I finally got off the phone with him, I decided it would be best if I left the office. There was no point in my sitting there, picking up the phone, and setting myself up to say something stupid. Too paranoid to be incommunicado, I went directly home, where I opened the door tentatively, as if reporters were waiting for me inside. Instead, the quiet from the office had followed me home and now filled every inch of my studio. I immediately turned on the TV to find out what was going on and to kill the silence.

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.