It’s not often I find myself without a boyfriend, but in 1990 I was single and had been for quite a while. But the dry spell wasn’t going to last much longer.

I had a dear old friend named Peter G. who was a very talented painter. Very Andy, very Barnett Newman. He never made the big time, but he was a really good artist. Back in the sixties, John and I lived in the loft next door to him, and I’ve been friends with him ever since.

One Saturday night Peter was throwing a party for David Byrne of the Talking Heads and he called to invite me. I told him I wasn’t really in the mood, but he told me there would be plenty of interesting single guys there. That got my attention.

I quickly got dressed and arranged my hair. I wore a bright red floral printed dress, with a black crinoline and red and black striped tights from my current collection. I had recently had a huge mane of bright red hair extensions put in, and since it was a hot summer night, I braided them and added some ribbons.

Before leaving for the party I went into Lulu’s room to say good night. She was half asleep and in a groggy voice asked why I was going out so late. I told her, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I had a feeling about that night.

I arrived fashionably late when the party was already in full swing. I surveyed the room, as you do, and realized I didn’t know anybody there except Peter and David, so I made a beeline straight to the bar to get a drink.

I noticed a guy standing at the bar who looked a lot like a young Michael Caine. Not that I was ever that into Michael Caine, but that’s who this guy resembled. He was tall with curly hair, very British looking. He was opening a bottle of red wine that he had brought with him, and I couldn’t help but notice how beautifully he opened it, and how beautifully he poured it into a glass, and how beautifully he took that first sip. He saw me watching him and then came over and introduced himself (this part of my story is so hard to talk about that I can’t bring myself to even write his name, so from here on out I will refer to him as He or #3) and asked me if I’d like some wine. I said yes, and He poured me a glass. I took a sip and, I swear, I fell in love right there on the spot . . . with that bottle of wine.

It was the most exquisite thing I had ever tasted. Young Michael Caine went on to explain that He just happened to be a world-class wine collector and that the bottle we were casually sharing cost more than five hundred dollars. He described himself as someone who worked in the world of “emerging technologies” and then proceeded to try to explain to me what that meant. Even now, I know nothing about computers, so it was all Greek to me.

While I may have had no idea what He was talking about, I really enjoyed listening to him talk. He was so passionate. In spite of my indifference to his looks, I found myself developing an attraction to him. He had style and charisma. Every inch the classic, dapper Englishman but with a little bit of a twist. There was also something about him—and I couldn’t put my finger on it—that seemed a bit off. He had a weird way of staring right through me when I was speaking that made me uncomfortable.

I wasn’t sure if He knew who I was and I’m pretty sure He didn’t ask me what I did for a living, which, given my Raggedy Ann outfit, was a shock. It wasn’t until later that I found out He knew exactly who I was. Peter had briefed him about me and wanted us to meet.

We continued talking—or, rather, He continued to talk—and I continued to listen.

Before I knew it, it was late and the party was winding down. I realized I had spent the entire time exclusively with him and drinking more of that incredible wine. When I told him I had to leave, He asked if He could see me again. I said sure and we exchanged phone numbers. I had no desire to jump into bed with him, I just found him intriguing.

He called a few days later and asked me to dinner. We didn’t go anywhere special, just my usual Italian place down the block from my apartment where I had dinner most nights.

That’s how it started. I didn’t feel as if I was being courted or romanced. We simply fell in with each other. It was all just kind of comfortable, and after a while, I have to admit, He did start to grow on me.

Did I mention that He was incredibly rich? As it turns out, not only had He been involved in the tech industry, but the company He owned had actually developed the software or whatever it is that allows verbal communications with computers, making a ton of money along the way. I did like the fact that He had his own money. This was a first for me. With all of my previous boyfriends and my last husband, I was always the one footing the bill, so this was a nice change. Now—for the time being, anyway—He was semiretired and seemed to have lots of leisure time on his hands. So much so that He began to want me to skip work and spend more time with him. That was a huge no-no in my book.

We began a long-distance relationship and split our time, or should I say, I split my time, flying every other weekend to one of his homes in Palo Alto, Jamaica, or Yorkshire. It was a lot to handle on top of my full workload, but the castles and the Concorde were pretty easy to get used to. The way He lived was on a whole different level. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my money but I don’t throw it around. I don’t live extravagantly. He really lived the jet-set lifestyle and acted every bit the eccentric billionaire. For example, whenever He arrived in New York, He liked to water-ski into the city from the airport—weather permitting, of course.

I enjoyed some of his homes more than others. The Yorkshire house, for example, I loved. We played the roles of lord and lady of the manor to the max and led a very glamorous existence there. I even had a completely different wardrobe for that house. I wore these long lace dresses that had hundreds of buttons up the front. They made me feel like Guinevere, Maid Marian, or Juliet.

At the beginning of the relationship, I guess what you’d call the honeymoon phase, the house was always filled with fresh flowers when I arrived, and He would shower me with gifts. There was a lot of fancy, expensive jewelry—diamond-encrusted bracelets, stuff like that. Which is not normally my style but, again, a girl can get used to these things! He even gave me a gorgeous vintage car. It was an Alvis, which are very rare, so beautiful to look at but impossible to drive as it had no power steering, no power anything. Even if I could’ve handled it, my feet couldn’t reach the pedals. He ended up using the car just to drive around his property.

The house itself wasn’t precisely a castle, but I would describe it as castlesque. It was made of stone and had all these arched windows with pointy tops. One of my favorite rooms was the huge wine cellar. Even the key to the door was gigantic. It was an old skeleton key about as long as my forearm. I used to love to go down there to select a few bottles, and it wasn’t unusual for us to go through two thousand dollars’ worth of wine in one weekend. I have to admit I learned a lot about good wine and especially good champagne as we became real aficionados in Yorkshire.

In Palo Alto, He had a more modest house—a smallish ranch-style home, really basic. I asked him to let me redecorate, and I did it up like an English country manor, covering most of the walls with gorgeous cabbage rose–printed wallpaper. I spent most of my time when in Palo Alto antiquing to fill the house with just the right furniture. The decorating wasn’t only something I loved to do, it was also a nice distraction from him and the ex.

His ex-girlfriend Jane lived right down the street with their two children. As much as I loved the house when I finished decorating it, whenever we were in Palo Alto, it was as if Jane and the kids lived with us, too. She was always letting herself in, and it wasn’t unusual for me to walk into the kitchen and find her rifling through the refrigerator.

I actually wouldn’t have minded if she had been nice to me, but she wasn’t. I really couldn’t blame her. What woman would be pleasant in that situation? She was rude and condescending. She took her cues from him and pretty quickly learned how to push my buttons, too. She’d say things about my weight or comment every time I ate something. I let it get to me and often gave it back to her, which is not usually my style, but there is that Leo moon in me.

I suspected He thought it was funny seeing the two of us make digs at each other, because He never came to my defense. In fact, He did quite the opposite. He had always been very vocal about my weight, even going so far as to make me weigh in whenever I went to see him. He actually demanded that I keep my weight at a level that he found attractive. Of course, it was all done for “my own good,” as He liked to put it.

It couldn’t have been very pleasant for the kids to be around all that drama. What kind of man would purposely expose his children to adults acting so badly toward each other? It was there that I got my first small glimpse into what I’d later think of as his sadistic side and soon began looking for any excuse to get out of going to Palo Alto. If I’d had any backbone at all, I would have flat out refused, but it always seemed easier to go with the flow than to be accused by him of being difficult and starting a fight.

At one point I came up with a plan that would give me an excuse to avoid the entire situation when I was in Palo Alto. I’d show up with tons of sketching to do for a booklet I was creating as a handout for my next fashion show and lock myself in my room with my Magic Markers. I ended up doing elaborate sketches of all eighty-seven looks in the show to save my sanity.

And then there was Jamaica. He had a property in Montego Bay but we mostly stayed at a place called Round Hill, which was a very exclusive resort. Now this place should have been a paradise for me, because I absolutely love the beach, but often when we went there Jane and her boyfriend would be there, too. Why He invited her at those times is beyond me. I knew He liked to have his kids around, but Jane came with the package, so she was there at the expense of my happiness.

Water-skiing wasn’t only something He did to ease his commute from JFK to Manhattan, He also loved to water-ski in Jamaica. And I was down with it, too, as long as I could avoid the poisonous jellyfish. We could have water-skied anywhere in Jamaica, but He preferred this one spot that was notorious for these monsters. I had gotten stung more than once in the past, so the thought of toppling off into a swarm of those translucent tentacles was more than I could handle. But He would insist—even dare me—and I’d stupidly take the challenge. I never gave him the satisfaction of falling into the water, but I was still traumatized.

He was essentially a thrill seeker and proud of it. He got high on adrenaline and laughing at everyone else’s terror. At one point He decided to purchase a small four-seater plane for my favorite house in Yorkshire. Before buying it, He wanted to give it a test run and insisted I go on the flight with him. We had to drive way out into the country to a small airstrip for the test. When we arrived I saw this tiny, very cute craft that almost looked like a toy. When we climbed in there was barely enough room for the pilot and the two of us.

Once we were high up in the air, the scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. We flew over his property, which was almost prettier from the sky than it was on the ground. I had just started to relax and enjoy this surreal experience when I heard him tell the pilot to cut the engines. I screamed, “What!! Are you nuts?” He just laughed at me, and that did it. I got it into my head that I had to get out of the plane right then and there, so I started to unbuckle my seat belt, which just made him laugh louder. I knew it was ridiculous, too. So I just sat there screaming.

I flashed on that scene in the movie Mahogany—the one where the Tony Perkins character takes Diana Ross on a crazy high-speed car ride down a highway all the while snapping pictures of her and not looking at the road as she loses her shit, screaming in panic. He eventually sells the photos to a magazine, which prints them.

After what seemed like hours, but must have been only a few minutes of screaming, my throat was raw, and the pilot thankfully turned the engines back on. I was panting and worked up when we eventually landed. When we got off the plane, my legs were like rubber, and He continued to laugh as He explained that we were never in danger. In fact, one of the things the pilot had to test was the plane’s ability to fly using only one engine. He had told the pilot beforehand not to say anything to me no matter how freaked out I got. To him it was all a big joke.

In Jamaica there was a small beach at the resort, and every time we went down there He insisted we start at one end and walk to the other, stopping and saying hello to everyone who was there. The place was a real celebrity mecca. I remember seeing Paul McCartney, Harrison Ford, and Pierce Brosnan. I was being forced to be social and I hated that. When I go away I like to get away from my public self and not have to be “on” all the time. But I couldn’t do that when I was with him. I just couldn’t be me and relax. But what really got to me was that I was losing my sense of self. When it was just the two of us, He could care less about my business, but once we were around people He wanted to impress, He just had to show me off.

The property directly next to his belonged to Ralph Lauren, who couldn’t stand him. I’d get embarrassed when He would insist it was okay to go out to dinner barefoot. And I’m not talking about some sandy-floored beachy restaurant, but a classy five-star place. Ralph was inevitably there to witness this childish, entitled behavior, and I always got the sense that Ralph was just shaking his head in disapproval. I was mortified because I’d known Ralph for years.

So, of course, sometimes I just wanted to avoid everything about him and stay in my apartment for a weekend. Sometimes I really did have to work. When I explained that I needed to stay home, He would sulk like a child and accuse me of not loving him. I almost always gave in and put his needs first—a big mistake . . . she says in retrospect. He got used to getting his way, and I realize now that I helped to create this monster.

The truth of the matter is that He was very controlling. It wasn’t enough that He obsessed about every detail of his own life. He wanted to micromanage me as well. He dictated which weekends I would see him and where. And it didn’t matter if I had a fashion show planned in two weeks. If He wanted me in Jamaica or Palo Alto or wherever, I was there. Against all of my instincts and past history, my work eventually took a backseat to his plans and schedules.

At one point He kept me in Yorkshire, insisting that I could video conference from there to my New York showroom. I remember once being out in a meadow with a video guy filming me, trying to lead a meeting in New York, while sheep grazed in the background. It was clear that this video conferencing wasn’t working and it certainly was not going down well with Chantal.

He never wanted me to leave, even when we weren’t getting along. It was just a power play that more often than not ended with his refusing to pay for my airline ticket back, and those Concorde tickets were not cheap. I realized that our relationship was actually starting to affect my work and I could not let that happen.

After one more awful weekend away in Yorkshire, I had reached my breaking point. It was late on a Monday night, and the car from the airport had just dropped me off in front of my apartment on Lower Fifth Avenue. The streets were deserted, and I was exhausted. I heard a voice say “Betsey?” I was a little scared, but when I turned around I saw it was an old friend, Paul, whom I hadn’t seen in years. We’d always been kind of sweet on each other, but nothing had ever come of it. We started to catch up out there on the sidewalk and I said, “This is silly. Why don’t you come upstairs for a drink?” At that moment I wanted nothing more than to talk to someone normal for a change.

He came up to my apartment. I knew we would be alone as at this point Lulu was now old enough and had moved out and had her own place on Nineteenth Street. I poured us some expensive wine, and before long one thing led to another and we were making out on one of my overstuffed floral print couches, with our hands all over each other. No sooner had we started fooling around than the phone rang. I motioned for Paul to be quiet because I was sure who it would be. I picked up and said as enthusiastically as I could, “Hello!” All He said on the other end was “I guess you made it home. . . . Are you alone? Is somebody there with you?”

I was in shock and thought for a second that maybe He was having my building watched or had bribed the doormen to keep an eye on me or something. He had been showing signs of paranoia lately, but this was insane. Also, He had never accused me of being unfaithful to him before, and I hadn’t been, until now. Because now I wanted it to be really over.

I managed to convince him that I had just gotten in and that I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I hung up and was so freaked out that I asked Paul to leave. After he was gone I sat up for a long time trying to figure out how He could have suspected that someone else was with me.

Of course, later, after we had finally broken up, He confessed to me that He had arranged for my entire apartment to be bugged. Shortly after we first started seeing each other, He’d sent over a team of people to install cameras and listening devices. When He told me this, I felt physically ill.

For a couple of weeks after the Paul incident, He kept bringing it up. I finally had to beg him to drop it, and He did, but it still spooked me.

I was freaked out but more than that I felt guilty. As miserable as I was at times with our relationship, I didn’t actually want to hurt him. So we stayed together.

I do admit, that at this point in the story, you may be thinking I was out of my mind to have stayed with him for so long. I probably was. Then again, it’s the negative stuff that stands out after all these years. That’s just human nature. The truth was, I actually enjoyed sparring with him, and I could dish it out as much as I could take it. There’s my Leo moon again. We hardly agreed on anything and we’d have heated debates about everything. Also, I enjoyed the lavish lifestyle and was actually willing to put up with him to have access to it. Being with him might have been maddening much of the time but it was never dull.

About eight years into our on again/off again relationship we were going through a rare “up” period. We were at the Yorkshire house for the weekend, and one afternoon we went on a long walk around the grounds and ended up at a sort of barnlike building. We sat down on a bench to rest, and I just took in the beauty of the place. It was February, and the weather was very cold. But the bright winter sun was shining and the fresh layer of snow was making me feel nostalgic for the beautiful winters I remembered growing up in Connecticut.

We started to talk randomly about our schedules, and He mentioned that because of some conflict or other, we might not be back in Yorkshire until the first week in August. Without giving it any thought I said, “Hey, that’s my birthday. Why don’t we get married?” Like I said, things were going well between us at the time, plus at that point we had been together for so long, and one does get set in one’s ways even if those ways are unhealthy, so my thinking was Why not? We had never really talked about marriage before. He looked shocked and was quiet. Then he grinned a wide grin, like the Cheshire cat, and said, “I’ve never been married before. What the hell, why not.”

I planned that wedding for the next seven months, and we split the costs equally. And believe me, the costs were huge! I remember both of us being very aware of the costs that we were racking up. But we were excited to have a big party, and I wanted an excuse to wear the most extravagant dress.

The jet set life. The wine helped!

Yorkshire was his boyhood home, so He wanted to get married there. I think He saw it as a kind of homecoming for himself—the conquering hero. The wedding would not be at his house but instead outdoors on the grounds of a large property close by. I wanted it to be very English country casual, with tons of beautiful wildflowers. We planned for all of our guests to be there for a full three days, with different events planned throughout. I organized a pub night for when everyone arrived and a gorgeous sit-down dinner the following night.

I had been so caught up in the planning and making sure everyone was enjoying themselves that the reality of what I was about to do didn’t hit me until the minute I was about to walk down the aisle. I remember a thought coming over me like a tidal wave: I am making a huge mistake! All of a sudden my stomach was in knots, and I was a complete nervous wreck. But it was too late to do anything about it. You know, the show must go on.

There was nobody I could articulate this to. Lulu wouldn’t want to hear it. She was against the marriage, just as she had been against the relationship all along. She’d hated him practically from the minute she met him. Lulu saw the control He had over me and especially resented how He treated me. She was always trying to fight a few battles for me against him, and that was an awful position to put her in. But, God bless her, she was always up for it.

Surprisingly she agreed to walk me down the aisle, and I don’t know how we made it. I wanted to say to her, I gotta get out of here!!!!! If I had, she probably would have turned me around and fled with me. I pictured myself doing a runaway bride thing, making a beeline for the door and never looking back.

Before I knew it, it was just me and him standing at the front of the aisle, and the preacher was already talking. All I heard was him saying, “I do,” and then me saying, “I do,” and then it was done. He was now Husband #3.

We went into the back office of the church to sign the registry to make the marriage official. Some of #3’s buddies were there with us. My family, Lulu, Chantal, and all of the other guests were still out in the main part of the church. Surrounded by his friends, who egged him on, #3 started getting very vocal about wanting to have sex with me immediately, saying we had to consummate the marriage. I was confused, as I thought He was saying “consommé,” and I wondered why, all of a sudden, he wanted to have soup.

I pulled away and kept protesting, “My whole family is here. What will they think?” I’ve never been to a wedding where the bride and groom disappear for two hours right after the ceremony. I was furious, but He didn’t care. He was insistent that He needed to possess me right then and there and literally dragged me up to the room where we had gotten dressed for the wedding.

Once we were there He tried to rip the wedding ring off my finger. It was a big wide gold band, the inside of which was engraved with the words “Wife . . . and Don’t Forget It,” or something equally horrible. No loving word, no heartfelt endearments, just that phrase. It might as well have said “Possession.” He pulled on it so hard I thought He was going to break my finger.

When He finally did manage to get it off, He threw it across the room. I pushed him away and tried to reason with him, saying that we’d really better get back to the reception. God knows what else was going on in my head. He ended up ripping my dress, which was a beautiful 1950s vintage gown with layers and layers of white eyelet lace and a long train.

That’s how much of a mindfuck our relationship had become by this time. Before we could go back downstairs for the reception, I had to find my wedding ring so no one would notice it was missing. I crawled around on the floor in my torn wedding gown, which as pretty as it had been, just seemed like a joke to me at this point. I finally found the ring under the radiator. I should have left it there. Putting it back on my finger was almost as painful as what I had just experienced. My God, to this day it makes me sick to even think about that scene. Sally and Bobby tried to get me to see how awful #3 behaved toward me, but I just didn’t want to hear it.

I don’t know how I got through the rest of the day. It’s all pretty much a blur. I do remember that right after the wedding ceremony, cars were organized to take everyone to the reception. #3 and I were in a vintage open-topped Bentley, and the rest of our guests followed. The townspeople lined the route from the church, and we waved to the crowds as if we were royals. In retrospect it was embarrassing and sickening, and I know it made a lot of the people very uncomfortable because they told me.

The day after the wedding we said goodbye to all of our guests except #3’s family, who were staying on for one more day. Suddenly they were an excuse to delay our honeymoon.

We were booked for a small trip just a few towns over at one of my favorite inns, having planned a short stay at a very beautiful, intimate little cottage. When it was time to leave, #3 stalled, saying that his family was still there. I couldn’t believe He didn’t hear how absurd He sounded. I took off and went to the cottage myself. I declared that I was sick and had to stay in bed . . . alone!

Not surprisingly, marriage didn’t improve our relationship. It didn’t strengthen our partnership. In fact, things went from bad to worse. And now we were going to live together almost full time. I hadn’t lived with anyone other than Lulu for years and was not looking forward to making the adjustment. I was right, living together was horrible. I felt as though I was always dreading his coming home, or waiting for him to leave.

The actual marriage lasted only six months. When it finally did end, it wasn’t over anything particular. I was just tired and knew it was time.

It was a Thursday and I was scheduled to be on a plane for Jamaica, and I just didn’t get on it. When my phone started ringing, I didn’t answer it. This went on all day. Lulu was with me and she kept me strong.

#3 left message after message, and they got more and more threatening until the final one said that He was coming to New York and would physically bring me to Jamaica. How’s that for romantic!

Lulu said, “Mom, you can’t be here when he gets back. Let’s go to a hotel.” So we checked into the Mercer in Soho and hid out there for two days. We were playing a waiting game, and Lulu convinced me that we could outwait him. I was able to call in to my answering machine at home, and finally there was a message saying, “Okay, you win. I’m going to Haiti to sign the divorce papers.”

#3 had set up an easy way out for whichever one of us would want to end the marriage first. It was kind of a parachute. The paperwork had, in fact, already been prepared and was sitting in a lawyer’s office in Haiti waiting for a signature. Don’t ask me why it was in Haiti. I have no idea. But I would imagine it was just some random perverse idea of his. I think He always thought that I would be the one who would initiate the breakup, and He wanted to make it as much of a hassle for me as possible.

All either of us had to do was get there and sign our names. It was his signature that ended the marriage. I didn’t see or speak to #3 until about five years later, in East Hampton, where He knew I had bought a house. He looked me up, so I invited him over. He came with his current girlfriend, who was a well-known young actress at the time. He seemed to have mellowed with age, but I don’t recall that we had anything much to say to each other. The girlfriend, however, managed to get me on my own while #3 was wandering around my yard.

She asked me if He had been oversexed when we’d been together. Oh boy! There’s a can of worms I didn’t want to open. All I said was yes and changed the subject. I didn’t want to hear her gory details and I sure as hell wasn’t about to share mine. They didn’t visit for very long. That was the last time I saw #3.

I had never in my life gone to a shrink. It’s just not my thing. I’m more a believer in putting an end to a situation and moving on with your life. But after I split with #3, things were not right at a pretty deep level, and I felt I needed some answers. I needed to know why I let this relationship get out of hand and why I let it go on for so long, when clearly, I wasn’t happy. The way it ended was so fuzzy. I guess you would say I was looking for closure. Also, wasting ten years of your life can leave you questioning your motives. Why did I marry guys who were so wrong for me? All my life I’ve had great boyfriends but I chose to marry the bad ones.

I asked around, and someone recommended a shrink down in the Village. I started seeing her once a week for a year and a half until the sessions got to be so boring for me that I would find myself trying to think of things to talk to her about in the cab on my way to the appointment. That was when I knew I was done with therapy and that I was ready to move on. I don’t think I ever got to the bottom of why I was with #3 for so long, but what I did come to terms with was that for whatever reason I did what I did, and at the very least, I stopped beating myself up about it. The shrink lady did say one thing that made sense to me. She said #3 is an addict and you are his drug.

Remember the wedding band with the horrible inscription? For some reason I never got rid of it. Most women would have thrown it into the ocean or off a cliff, as some sort of liberating, symbolic gesture. Well, I’m not most women; I didn’t do that. I kept it, closed tight in a little box buried somewhere with all of my other jewelry. For almost twenty years it never saw the light of day. Just recently I took it to a jeweler, had it melted down, and sold it for scrap.