The Billionaires Pianist

Chapter 4

There are parties, and then there are Whitmore parties. The former is a category; the latter, a class action lawsuit waiting to happen. I arrive at Eleanor Whitmore’s Manhattan penthouse in the careful armor of a navy cocktail dress, custom hemmed at the elbow to mask my tendon scars—a pianist’s badge of honor, which in this company might as well be a prison tattoo. The doorman does not ask my name; he glances once at my shoes, then the invitation, and waves me in. The elevator is brass, polished to a point where I can see the faint shadow of my own anxiety in the mirrored walls.

The penthouse doors open into a foyer the size of my parents’ entire house. Marble floors. A war of orchids on the entryway table, each stem stiff with expectation. Above, a chandelier the circumference of a Christmas tree rains filtered gold over the assembled guests. Everyone in the room turns, not to greet me, but to measure. I see their heads dip together, the brief click of mutual appraisal, before resuming their practiced laughter.

It’s not that I don’t know these people. They are the same genus as the donors I used to charm at conservatory galas, before I married into their world and became, in their taxonomy, a subspecies: Spouse, Non-Earning. Tonight, Julian is not at my side; he’s “held up at the office,” which could mean anything from conference call to clandestine tryst. I am on my own, untethered, a bird dropped in the middle of a terrarium full of snakes.

Eleanor herself glides across the marble in a sheath dress the color of skim milk, her hair a flawless cloud of platinum. She is trailed by two other women, both expertly preserved, faces lacquered to an almost edible sheen. Eleanor’s eyes are sharp, the kind that register every chip in the crystal before it reaches her lips. She floats a hand to my shoulder and guides me toward the living room as if I’m a skittish client at an open house.

“Isabella, darling. How brave of you to come alone,” she coos, her voice pitched just below a whisper. “You must forgive us, we’ve already begun without you.”

She gestures to a sideboard groaning under the weight of caviar and antique silver. A footman in white gloves stands nearby, ready to replenish the smoked salmon or, failing that, my sense of dignity. I murmur thanks and accept a flute of champagne, letting the chill bleed into my palm.

The main salon is already thrumming with conversation. I recognize half the faces from glossy magazine pages—someone’s husband whose name is now a hedge fund, a woman who once designed handbags but now trades only in scandal, a pair of men with matching glasses and matching air-kiss technique. They cluster in small, defensive knots, each group encircled by the subtle magnetic field of shared wealth.

I amble to the nearest group and slip into the periphery, where I can exist as a decorative accent rather than a participant. The topic is vacation homes, which ski resorts have been ruined by t****k, the unconscionable rise in co-op board fees. I smile, nod, sip; my presence barely registers. Then, with a pivot practiced in a thousand rehearsal rooms, the conversation turns.

“Isabella, dear, you went to Juilliard, didn’t you?” This from a brunette with the architecture of a swan and the voice of a paralegal. Her name, I recall, is Margo.

“Yes, I did,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Class of ’14.”

“How extraordinary,” she purrs, turning to her companion. “I’ve always thought music was the most—what’s the word—quixotic of the arts. All that effort, and then it’s over in an hour.” She laughs. The others join in, the sound as brittle as the canapés.

Her companion, a man whose cufflinks probably cost more than my childhood piano, smiles at me with the indulgence of someone who’s already written off the deduction. “You must miss performing,” he says. “Or do you keep up with little recitals at home?”

A polite silence follows. I sense the underlying question: How does it feel to have thrown away your talent for a rung on the social ladder? I remind myself to breathe, counting the rests in Chopin’s nocturne as if it’s the only thing holding my molecules together.

“I play, sometimes,” I reply. “Mostly for myself.”

“That’s wonderful,” Margo says, but her eyes have already moved on. “Julian is so generous, isn’t he, letting you keep your little hobby?”

The word hobby lands like a cough in an auditorium. I smile, the kind I reserve for strangers’ babies and malfunctioning smoke alarms.

“He’s supportive,” I say. “But I imagine you know how busy he is.”

“Oh, yes,” Margo says, and I know from the smile she’s seen him at least twice outside of office hours. “A mind like his never sleeps.”