Jackie and I walk the two blocks from our office at 666 Fifth Avenue to Prunelle, our go-to restaurant when it’s just the two of us. “When the restaurant is filled at lunch,” wrote The New York Times, “with expensively dressed patrons, most of them male, the noise level is high but cheerful.” Mostly male is a good description of wherever we went. When we were trying to woo big-time names to become authors with us at Doubleday, we’d walk a few more blocks east to the Four Seasons. There, the original home of the power lunch, every table was filled with brand-name male media tycoons. Not one of them didn’t swivel his head when Jackie O walked in. And Jackie did what she always did: kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the stares in her wake.

Funny, at Prunelle, with those expensively dressed male patrons, plain old businessmen, they didn’t take much notice. If we were there on a Monday, they might not have even recognized her. On Mondays, she often came straight in from her house in New Jersey, with her hair pulled back. Without the Kenneth blowout, she didn’t look like the Jackie O from all the photographs. Her work clothes were simple: pants and a top.