I've Got You Under My Skin

28

George Curtis drove the four blocks to his home, outwardly composed but inwardly in a state of emotional exhaustion.

Rob Powell was toying with him. Rob knew about him and Betsy, George was sure of it. He thought about Laurie Moran, the producer, discussing the sequence of filming the next day. She had thanked him in particular for participating in the program.

“I know how busy you must be, Mr. Curtis,” she said. “Thank you for giving up your day to be with us. I know there was a lot of waiting around while we set up for the shooting. Tomorrow we’ll film you standing in front of the backdrop of clips of the Gala, then being interviewed by Alex Buckley about your memories of that night.”

Memories, George thought as he turned into his driveway, memories. That was the night Betsy had given him an ultimatum. “Tell Isabelle you want a divorce like you promised, or pay me twenty-five million dollars to stay with Rob and keep my mouth shut. You’re a billionaire; you can afford it.”

And it was on the way to the Gala that Isabelle, her face radiant, had told him she was four months pregnant with twins.

“I waited to tell you, George,” she had said. “After four miscarriages I didn’t want to disappoint you again. But four months is a big milestone. After fifteen years of waiting and praying, this time we’ll have a family.”

“Oh my God,” was all he could say. “Oh my God.”

I was thrilled and terrified, George thought. I asked myself how I could ever let myself get involved with Betsy, my best friend’s wife.

It had all started in London. George was there for a business meeting with the European director of the Curtis fast-food restaurant chain that his father had founded in 1940. Rob and Betsy Powell were in London at the same time, and they, too, were staying at the Stanhope Hotel, in an adjoining suite. Rob flew to Berlin overnight.

I took Betsy to dinner, then back at the hotel she suggested having a nightcap in my suite, George remembered. She never left that night. It was the beginning of a two-year affair.

Isabelle and I were growing apart, George thought as he parked the car in front of the house. She was taken up with volunteering for a number of charities, and I was all over the world opening up new markets. When I was home, I didn’t want to go to the charity dinners with her.

Because anytime Rob was away, I met Betsy somewhere.

But after a year it began to wear off. I finally saw her for what she was: a manipulator. And then I couldn’t get rid of her. She kept hounding me to get a divorce.

At the Gala, Isabelle was telling her friends that she was pregnant.

When Betsy heard that, she told me she knew I wouldn’t get a divorce. Instead she wanted that twenty-five million dollars to keep her mouth shut. “You can afford it, George,” she had said, smiling, always aware of the audience around her. “You’re a billionaire. You won’t even miss it. Otherwise I tell Isabelle about us. Maybe the shock will cause her to miscarry again.”

George was sickened. “If you tell Isabelle or anyone else, Rob will divorce you.” George could hardly even manage to form the words. “And I know your prenup leaves you with almost nothing.”

Betsy had actually smiled. “I know that won’t happen, George, because you’re going to pay me. And I’ll keep living happily with Rob, and you and Isabelle will be in a state of bliss with your twins.”

She continued to smile as George heard himself say, “I’ll pay you, Betsy, but if you ever say anything to Isabelle or anyone else, I will kill you. I swear it.”

“Here’s to that agreement,” Betsy said as she clinked her glass against his.

Twenty years later, George thought as he unlocked the door of the car. His mind switched to what Laurie Moran had told him about the rest of his part in the filming.

“And then we’ll have you and Alex Buckley sitting together, and he’ll ask you your overall impressions of the party and of Betsy Powell,” Laurie had said. “Maybe you have some stories you could tell about Betsy. From what I understand, you were close friends of the Powells and frequently saw them socially.”

I told Moran that I saw Rob more on the golf course at the club than socially, as couples, George thought as he walked up the three steps to the charming brick house that he and Isabelle had built twenty years ago. He remembered how the architect had come in with pretentious renderings of houses in which the entrance hall was big enough for a skating rink and twin staircases led to a balcony “where you could put a full orchestra.”

Isabelle’s comment was, “We want a home, not a concert hall.”

And it was homey. Spacious but not overwhelming. Inviting and warm.

He opened the door and headed to the family room. As he had expected, Isabelle and the twins, Leila and Justin, who were home from college for the summer, were there.

George’s heart swelled with love as he looked at the three of them.

And to think I almost lost them, he thought as he remembered his threat to Betsy.