Fairy Tale Interrupted by Rosemarie Terenzio Read Free Book Online Page A

tightly articulating my name. Stepping into his office, I realized it was worse than I’d feared. John was behind his desk, white-knuckling the paper. He was so mad that I tried a preemptive self-effacing remark to avoid getting chewed out.

    “I’m so humiliated,” I said.

    He wasn’t having any of it. “How do you think I feel? Like people don’t think I’m dumb enough already.”

    I swore to him and to myself it would be the last time I was so careless.

    But being a decent assistant isn’t just about making your boss look good. I had to understand John’s motivations and aspirations so that I could act on his behalf without embarrassing either of us. As with any relationship, figuring him out took time—and my screwups sometimes offered the best insight into the real John.

    When John asked me to make a lunch reservation for two at La Grenouille, the legendary French eatery, I made the rare mistake of completely forgetting to call. He was planning to ask Marie-Josée Kravis, the glamorous economist wife of the billionaire financier Henry Kravis, to join him on the board of the Robin Hood Foundation, a charitable organization that fights poverty in New York City. John knew the elegant philanthropist would feel at home at the upscale restaurant. However, when they entered the dining room, the maitre d’ had no reservation listed for John Kennedy.

    John called the office from a pay phone (this was before cell phones) and lit into me.

    “They don’t have my name down. There’s no reservation,” he yelled. “What am I supposed to do, take her to Hamburger Harry’s?”

    I knew I’d messed up, but John’s anger surprised me. He was always so laid-back. Had I misread him? Was he really an entitled asshole? I don’t know if I was caught off guard or simply scared by his fury, but either way, I lied to him.

    “I-I don’t know what happened,” I stammered. “I made thereservation. Even if they don’t have your name, won’t they just seat you anyway?”

    I mean, what restaurant couldn’t find space for John Fucking Kennedy Jr.? Most places would bring a carpenter in to build a table just to have him sit in their restaurant.

    “It doesn’t matter. You don’t just waltz into La Grenouille without a reservation,” he said.

    As soon as John slammed the phone down, I called the restaurant in tears and explained to some random French guy that I had forgotten to make the reservation, and then I pleaded with him to seat my boss.

    “It eez no problem,” he said when I finally took a breath. “They are already seated.”

    When John returned from lunch, I was petrified. I’d spent the past few hours organizing files to the point of hysteria. But he just flopped down in a chair, giving me his best puppy-dog eyes, which, as you can imagine, were pretty good, and said, “I’m sorry, Rosie. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I was just embarrassed in front of Mrs. Kravis. I didn’t want her to think I’m an arrogant prick who expects special treatment whenever he walks in the door. It’s just disrespectful, you know?”

    I appreciated John explaining why he was upset, but I didn’t quite follow why he was apologizing.

    “They cleared the whole thing up at the restaurant,” he said.

    “They cleared what up?” I asked nervously.

    “The maitre d’ said there was a mix-up because a new person was managing the reservations. He brought the book over and showed me that my name was put in for next week.”

    I didn’t contradict the maitre d’s story, though I was beyondgrateful to him for covering my ass. I understood why John had been so angry. Unlike some celebrities, he didn’t need to feed his ego by aggrandizing his image. He didn’t throw his weight around to validate his existence; he didn’t have to. There was not one person alive who was more famous than John F. Kennedy Jr. If the hottest movie star in the world was someplace and John showed up, the star would immediately