Fairy Tale Interrupted (21 page)

As I sat in the back of the taxi, it dawned on me that I didn’t have anyone to ask me how
I
felt. My job didn’t leave much room for a life outside
George,
John, and Carolyn. By becoming a protective vault 24/7, I sacrificed my own needs. I couldn’t give attention to a relationship of my own, yet I was stuck in the middle of theirs. But as soon as I walked through the doors of the party, I hid behind a big smile. It was all part of the gig.

I hadn’t seen Frank in weeks, family gatherings had taken a backseat (my mother would say, “You mean to tell me you aren’t coming home
again
for Sunday dinner?”), and I hadn’t been on a real date in months. My most important relationship was with John Kennedy, and he just didn’t do it for me. By the time I landed at John’s place in Hyannis for my weeklong vacation during the summer of 1998, I was spent and looking forward to turning everything off, including my brain.

At 7:30 a.m. the second morning of my vacation, still groggy from Provi’s amazing daiquiris the night before, I heard a knock at my door. “Rose, your sister’s on the phone.” It was Billy Noonan, John’s friend, who was also a guest at the house.
When I opened the bedroom door, he wore an unmistakable look of concern. As I made my way to the phone, I passed Provi in the hallway wringing her hands. Phone calls from family that early in the morning were never a good sign.
My father’s dead. I just know it,
I thought.

My sister Amy was crying hysterically when I picked up the phone.

“I’m so sorry, RoseMarie,” she sobbed.

“Is it Dad?”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh my God. It’s Mom?”

“No, no.”

The guessing game was getting on my nerves. “Please tell me what’s going on. You’re freaking me out!”

“Frank passed away last night.”

“Who’s Frank?” I asked, puzzled.

“Frank Giordano,” my sister said, crying even harder.

“What are you talking about? Frank’s on Fire Island. He’s not dead.”

“RoseMarie, he had a heart attack.”

Frank. My Frank. My best friend—the person I spoke to on the phone four times a day, the person who eased me into my new life, the person I loved more than anyone else—was gone. As the realization hit me, I dropped the phone, doubled over, and screamed in horror.

Frank, at thirty-six years old, had died of a drug overdose. I was stunned. It didn’t make sense. And yet, just one month earlier, I had received a disturbing message on my answering machine from a state psychiatrist informing Frank that he had missed his court-appointed rehab date.
What the fuck is she
talking about?
I wondered. Frank must have gotten into trouble and left my phone number as a contact. I immediately called him and he fessed up.

“I got arrested,” he said.

“For what?”

“For possession of cocaine, and I didn’t even have that much on me.”

I went ballistic. He got arrested for drugs and didn’t call me? I worked for JFK Jr. for Christ’s sake. I could have called someone to help him out. Instead, Frank had taken the matter into his own hands, choosing rehab over jail time. But, he told me, he didn’t want to go because it was filled with depressing homeless heroin addicts. No shit.

Frank wasn’t the only one in denial. Despite his run-in with the law, which had escalated into a full-on crisis, I was still ignoring his enduring problem with drugs. I thought he was on the cusp of getting his shit together. About a month earlier, Matt had given Frank a serious, tough-love pep talk at a nondescript hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant we went to when we didn’t want to run into anyone we knew. “Frank, it’s ridiculous. You have to get an apartment and move out of your mom’s house,” Matt said. “Buy an apartment. We know a million people. You’re a great person. We can help you make this happen.” Frank listened to him. Matt, a success at twenty-nine, introduced Frank to his broker, who found him a perfect one-bedroom on Spring and Bowery for $100,000. He had enough money saved up from his job with Brad Johns to make a down payment, which he did one week before he died.

Why hadn’t I insisted Frank come with me to Hyannis? He said his friend had already paid for the room on Fire Island so
that they could go to the White Party—a raucous annual beach party to benefit the Gay Men’s Health Crisis Center—and he was reluctant to back out at the last minute.

“I don’t want to go, but I have to,” he said.

“You’ve been to that party a million times. Come on.”

I should have persisted—I knew his going to Fire Island was a bad idea. For as much as I prided myself on my ability to take care of people, I had let down the most important person in my life, the one to whom I owed everything. If not for Frank, I wouldn’t have been working for John or living in Manhattan. Ironically, if not for Frank, I wouldn’t have grown up and taken responsibility for myself. Unconditionally my champion, he made me feel like I could do anything. He was my confidant and partner in crime. I could murder someone and come to him with the smoking gun, and he would say, “Okay, here’s what we need to do.” He wouldn’t even ask what happened. It wouldn’t have mattered.

At the beginning of the summer, Frank and I dog-sat at John’s house on Martha’s Vineyard and had an amazing weekend: we went skinny-dipping for the first time at the private beach and cooked delicious meals. One night, while we were making dinner in the kitchen, Frank looked up at me and said, “Rosie, you know, this is what it’s like to be married. We are as close as any couple.”

And now he was gone. I felt like a widow as I threw my clothes into a suitcase and caught a 9:30 a.m. flight out of Hyannis. As I raced to the plane, my body was numb, but my emotions were on overdrive. Sitting in the first seat of the puddle jumper, I couldn’t stop sobbing.

“Are you okay, miss?” the passenger next to me asked.

“No, I’m not,” I whispered through my tears.

When I got back to my apartment, Nancy, my best friend from high school, was already there. She didn’t want me to be alone when I listened to dozens of answering machine messages from the night before. Carolyn arrived a few hours later and insisted we order a pizza. I hadn’t consumed anything other than cigarettes all day.

Less than a week later, after a surreal funeral with Frank’s inconsolable mom and everyone treating me like his widow, I dove back into work. It felt like all I had left. Although John, who was traveling in Vietnam, would be away for another week, I cut my own vacation short and returned to the office. I was grateful for the enormous pile of mail I found waiting for me. Opening John’s mail was how I started every day. The routine was the only thing that felt good that day.

I hadn’t made it through a quarter of the letters when John phoned from Vietnam.

“Rosie, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice crackling and thin as if it had traveled to me from the past.

“Thanks,” I choked.

“Do you want me to come home?” he asked.

“It’s sweet of you to offer, but that’s the last thing I want, because it will be about me for five seconds. And then it will be all about you,” I said, sort of joking.

I was wrong—when John returned, it wasn’t all about him. Although everyone in the office clamored to get a minute with him as soon as they saw him walking down the hallway (“How was your trip, John?” “Let me know when you have a minute. I need to talk to you about something important”), he put his hand up and said, “Not now. Where’s Rosie?”

John came right up to me. “Come here,” he said, putting his arms around me. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said, and broke down.

He ushered me into his office and closed the door. I sat down and sobbed almost as hard as I had when I first heard the news of Frank’s death.

“You have to grieve and mourn, but Frank lived his life the way he wanted to,” John said. “The reason he loved you so much was because you accepted him for that. Very few people allow others to live their lives on their own terms. Now that he’s gone, don’t glamorize or demonize Frank. Remember him for who he really was. If you don’t, you will never get past it.”

I held on to each of John’s words. He knew what he was talking about.

“Whenever there’s a tragedy, a tiny nub of green starts to grow inside you. It’s a regrowth,” John continued. “You have to hold on to that little nub until it grows into the tree that is the next part of your life.”

Christmas of 1998 looked like it was going to be a wash for many reasons. With Frank gone, it was sure to be the worst holiday season ever. And now Negi and I had to throw a holiday party on the measly budget Hachette had provided.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars? We can’t do anything with that. We should just forget it and give the money to charity,” I said. I didn’t feel like celebrating this year anyway.

John walked by and, overhearing my last comment, he said, laughing, “I thought
you
were the charity, Rosie.”

I ignored him. But after learning about the tiny party budget,
he decided to pitch in some money of his own—ten thousand dollars, to be precise.

John’s one stipulation for footing the bill was that no one could wear black to the party—a radical request since we all constantly wore black. But ten thousand dollars was ten thousand dollars, and Negi, Biz, and I set about planning a blowout—a DJ, open bar, the works.

In the weeks leading up to the party, I became more and more excited, because this was going to be just that—a party. No expectations. No press. No pressure. We didn’t have to appease advertisers or woo celebrities. It was a rare opportunity to have a good time and toast ourselves. And I really needed to have some fun again.

The night did not disappoint. The city twinkled festively outside the wall of windows in the loft space we had rented through Biz’s friend. The Puck Building is an old downtown edifice that once housed the satirical monthly
Spy
magazine, which famously poked fun at everything, including
George
. Without any hidden agendas, the
George
staff was more relaxed that night.

Carolyn gave me an enormous hug as soon as she found me in the big, open room. “You are the best-dressed person here,” she said, holding me at arm’s length to get a full view.

I didn’t have a single nonblack item in my closet, so I went shopping and bought a sheer, light-blue sheath with tiny silver sequins. It was gorgeous.

“I love that, of course, you ignored John’s rules completely.” She wore a black dress.

“Fuck it. I don’t care.” She laughed. “I don’t work for
George
. I can wear black.”

For the first time since starting my job, I brought friends other than Frank to a work function. A family friend, an ex-boyfriend, the guy I was having a fling with, and a few other folks came to the party to see my other life and meet John. The staff party was the perfect opportunity to introduce my friends to him. I didn’t need to worry that they would act like freaks, say something inappropriate, or tattle to a paper; we could all let our guard down and just enjoy ourselves. And, of course, my friends were thrilled to be invited. The DJ was awesome, too. I was dancing with a friend when Prince’s “It’s Gonna Be a Beautiful Night” came on and I felt a tug on my elbow. It was John.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

He looked amazing in a green velvet Gucci suit that only he could pull off. He grabbed both my hands, which made us laugh. Even in the dim light, I could see his face brighten as we grooved to Prince’s soulful singing.

As we danced together, I felt every eye in the room trained on us. Forming a circle, people craned their necks to get a glimpse. It was just John, whom I goofed on every day. And I had spent countless hours making fun of the way other people got swept up by his charm. But in that moment I felt like a princess. It was intentional on John’s part. He wanted everyone in that room to know I was special. He was giving me permission to show off by showing me off. And yet it felt as if we were the only two people on the dance floor.

He stopped in the middle of the floor and kissed my hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate everything you do for me. You’re my best friend.”

The past year had been rough. John and I had each been through a lot, personally and professionally. The stresses of not knowing whether
George
would be in business by next Christmas or what story about him, Carolyn, or the magazine would pop in the press next had left our nerves frayed and exposed. But despite the consuming nature of my work, the ups and downs of the past, and those surely to come, I knew, dancing with John, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. He wasn’t just a boss but someone I truly cared about, and he felt the same way about me. No matter how difficult the subject matter, we were always up-front and honest with each other. Our relationship had started out sincerely, and it never changed. With Frank gone, I had no one else like that in my life.

“John, I just want you to know I really love my job,” I said. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m coming with you.”

I gave John a hug and a kiss, secure and happy in the knowledge that with him I would always have a job and a life. A great life full of drama, glamour, inside stories, and laughter. I didn’t care if we were working at a magazine or selling ties on the street, I wasn’t leaving his side.

The day before the Christmas break, I found the usual mountain of lavish gifts on my desk in what had become quite an expensive holiday ritual for Carolyn. She’d bought me scarves and shoes and a purse she had seen me coveting in the window of the Prada store almost a month before. I would have to talk to her about next year—she couldn’t keep shopping like this. Especially if
George
went under. But for now I decided to just enjoy it and be grateful.

On top of the pile sat a note from John. While everyone else drank leftover alcohol from the Christmas party in the conference room, I took a moment to myself and opened the card.