My grandma and dad were born in France, I took three years of French in school and can still barely read it.
So, I can’t translate this for you, but it does contain a much better version of the birthday photo than the screenshots that we’ve seen. Turns out RoseMarie was celebrating her 31st birthday here. She’s 44 now, so this would have been from around 1999.
I really do like that turtleneck now that I can see it more clearly. The color is great.
UPDATE – Bouchra has kindly translated the article. Thank you, Bouchra! Here it is:
(Caption under photograph) I celebrated my 31st birthday at Pravda, a caviar bar in New York.
By working with John-John, I also became close to his wife. She used to tell me about her joy and sorrows. This July 16, 1999, I convinced her to go to the wedding of a cousin of the Kennedy clan.
When he arrived to the office on Friday morning, July 16, 1999, I immediately saw that he was in a bad mood. I knew John by heart. It had been five years since I started working with him. Our offices are adjacent, to the 41st floor of the Paramount Plaza on Broadway. I was officially his personal assistant, but in reality, much more than that: his chief of staff, his confidante, and his guardian angel against many annoyances. John runs George, The glamorous magazine he founded in 1995. He is my boss, my mentor and the older brother I never had. Everything between us is contradictory: I am from the Bronx, from a working-class family that is not impressed by the Kennedy name. Our first meeting went very badly. I worked in a public relations firm headed by one of his friends, and the day John began working there, he moved into my office. I was furious with him and for weeks refused to say hello. One day he called me by my first name. I was surprised. I looked up at him. He gave me the finger. That’s how we became friends.
John loved my banter, my repeated use of the F word, my loyalty and my frankness. When he had a concern, I got straight to the point. “What upsets you?” That morning, it was the conversation he had with Carolyn. She just told him that she will not come to the wedding of his cousin Rory, which was the next day in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, where the entire Kennedy clan will be gathered. Her absence will make people talk. “Don’t worry, I’ll call her” I said.
“WHEN THE DRAMA HAPPENED, I WAS IN THEIR TRIBECA LOFT”
John introduced me to Carolyn in 1994, just months after the beginning of their story. She immediately took me under her wing. Together, we used to go shopping and she bought me beautiful clothes. One of my fondest memories remains my 31st birthday that she organized in a bar near SoHo. Several times a week, we’d meet in the evening to chat on the couch with a glass of wine. When John proposed marriage to her, the weekend of July 4, 1995, Carolyn called me the next day. “Are you sitting down?” Her voice was like a voice of a little girl, eager to confide her secret to her friend. But this Friday, she was upset. They have been married for awhile and being “the wife of JFK Jr.” is not easy. She suffers from the eyes of others, which are often malicious, and feels neglected. John is adorable and generous, but he can be insensitive. He is the kind to make her wait till a late hour at home when she refused a dinner with girlfriends to spend the evening with him or to bring some friends home with no warning. Once again, I play the mediator. “Go to the wedding, otherwise everyone will wonder why you’re not there, and you’ll regret it.” Carolyn whines: “I have nothing to wear.” But after ten minutes, I managed to convince her. In the early evening, she met John at the airport. Together they embarked on his personal plane, along with Carolyn’s sister Lauren.
At the time of the tragedy, I was in their Tribeca loft. They told me to spend the weekend there rather than in my studio. Around midnight, the phone rings. I thought that John was calling to say that all is well. It was Carole Radziwill. Her voice is concerned. She thinks I’m Carolyn. I told her Carolyn left with John. “Oh my God,” she says. She had called all airports around Hyannisport, in vain. The plane disappeared from the radar. All night, I moved heaven and earth to find him. The next day I’m still thinking of John when an assistant of Senator Ted Kennedy called me to announce that they have recovered the bodies. The world collapses. I think back when I pushed Carolyn, my best friend, to take that damn plane. Even today, this feeling of guilt is pursuing me and I think I’ll live with it for the rest of my days.