Elodie

 

 

Mrs. Abrams is a sweetheart. My heart was about to jump out of my chest when I rang the bell at the front door of the Abrams‘ townhouse. To my surprise, it was Mrs. Abrams herself who opened the door for me, welcoming me in with a big smile. For some reason, I expected a servant to take care of that. Isn't that what super rich people spend their money on?

This family is beyond super rich, though. I knew this before, but I haven't been able to grasp the extent of their wealth until now that I'm stepping into their home. Located right between Park and Lexington avenues, the townhouse boasts a large center entry set in a limestone base and white brick upper stories highlighted by two large, arched windows on the parlor floor. When entering, one steps into a large entrance hall with stairs leading to the upper floors on the left, next to an elevator. An elevator! This is a single family home with five stories and its own elevator!

I try not to gawk as Mrs. Abrams introduces me to her husband and another middle-aged couple who turn out to be the bride's parents. All four of them are the epitome of Upper East Side high society when it comes to their looks. The women are both dressed in suit ensembles, accompanied by heavy gold jewelry that - no doubt - costs more than my monthly rent. Maybe even half a year‘s worth of rent. Their make-up and hairstyle are so similar that one could mistake them for siblings, except for the fact that Mrs. Abrams‘ hair is a dark auburn color while Mrs. Waldorf is a light blonde. The fathers, both men with graying hair and round bellies, are dressed in tailored suits and sporting clunky watches.

All four of them make me feel horribly under-dressed, even though I'm wearing my most formal dress, a light beige formal-type dress with a lace design that ends just above my knees. I bought it years ago at a second-hand store and have been using it ever since for most of my formal engagements, even performances. It looks pretty worn-out by now, but there's nothing I can do about it, as I live from hand to mouth every single month since I've moved to New York. It's the only formal piece I own, and if this family is to hire me for more than one occasion, I will have to spend some of my earnings to buy another dress so as not to embarrass myself. The same goes for my shoes, an old pair of white ballerinas that used to be chic about a decade ago. Both my dress and my shoes are brand name products, but they were used when I bought them and have suffered through many occasions and performances throughout my time at college.

"So, you're in your final year at Juilliard I hear?" Mrs. Abrams asks in a high-pitched voice as I follow her and the others to the back of the townhouse.

"Yes, I am," I reply, incapable of saying anything other than that, because my head is filled with "Holy shit!" exclamations at every step we take. The entire home is penetrated by light thanks to the insanely high ceilings, open spaces and windows, and the decor is out of this world exquisite and surprisingly tasteful. As the family leads me to the other side of the first floor, I realize that the square footage of this building must be a lot bigger than one would expect from the outside.

"You know, I'm a Juilliard alumnus myself," Mrs. Abrams says, catching my attention.

"Oh, I didn't know that," I reply truthfully.

She smiles at me. "Yes, very few people do. I majored in drama, but I haven't acted in decades."

Mrs. Abrams pauses and lets out a nostalgic sigh. "Sometimes I really miss it."

Before I can come up with a reply, we pass through beautifully adorned french doors, and our short conversation is interrupted by the appearances of what I assume to be the happy couple.

"Miss Hill," Mrs. Abrams says, as we enter the room. "May I introduce you to my son, Kingston, and his beautiful fiancée, Gloria."

She gestures towards the two of them, and I stand awkwardly as they rise from their seats and approach me. Neither of them looks particularly happy to see me. The woman, who is probably about my age but appears to be much older with the way she's styled up, barely manages to smile as she takes my hand, and the groom...

When he shakes my hand, squeezing it a little too hard for my comfort, it feels as if he shoots an electric jolt through my system.

He is devastatingly handsome.

I've tried not to gawk since I entered this home, but now that I lay eyes on him, I can't help but lose control of myself. He's too much, too much of everything. His black hair is cut in a sideswept undercut, gelled to the side with a few strands falling into his handsome face. Just like the fathers, he's wearing a tailored suit in dark gray, but the way his jacket stretches around his arms and chest, it is a reliable telltale of the buff stature hidden beneath. He fixates on me through dark gray eyes, the hint of a smirk appearing on his face, as he welcomes me.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill," he says. I get weak in the knees as his deep voice radiates through the hall-like sitting room.

Holy shit. How on earth am I supposed to make a good impression with this man around? And he's about to get married, too!

My voice is nothing but a hoarse screech when I try to give him a reply, but no one seems to notice or care.

"Please, let's sit down," Mrs. Abrams says, gesturing towards the seating area where the couple has been waiting for us.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure where to sit, and so I wait for everyone else to take their seats. As it turns out, there is no specific sitting order except for the fact that Mrs. Abrams gestures toward a noble armchair with white cushioning and a wooden frame for me to sit in. The chair is placed next to an array of two sofas and two other armchairs of a similar design, all of them arranged around a white coffee table. I notice that each of the parents sit together on the sofas, while Gloria and Kingston quickly decide on the armchairs, sitting opposite of each other - and closest to me.

I gulp and sincerely hope that no one notices my nervousness. I'm carrying my music sheets with me in a black folder and I place it in my lap, my fingers clasping around it as if I'm holding on for dear life.

"No need to be nervous, Miss Hill," Mrs. Abrams says, casting me a warm smile. "We just want to have a little chat to get to know you a little and exchange some ideas about the event we intend to hire you for."

"Sure," I say.

I can feel his intense dark eyes on me and see him from the corner of my eye. Why is he staring at me like this? When I turn my head to catch his eyes, I expect him to look away, as most people would do when they're caught staring. But he doesn't. Our eyes lock onto each other for a few awkward seconds, before I give in and evade his gaze.

"Tell us a little about yourself," Mr. Waldorf, the bride's father, says. His tone is the complete opposite of Mrs. Abrams. He's firm and serious, not showing even the hint of a smile as he speaks to me.

"Um, about myself?" I ask, unsure what these people need to know about me other than what kind of music I can provide for them. "Well, as for my repertoire, I-"

"No, no," Mrs. Waldorf interrupts. "We'll talk about that later. Tell us a little about yourself. Where are you from?"

I regard her with a confused expression. I didn't expect this to be a proper interview and had prepared for playing more than speaking.

"I'm from New York," I say. "Born and raised. Brooklyn."

"That's not New York," Gloria interjects, eyeing her thickly painted finger nails.

"Gloria!" her mother says, casting her a warning look. "Don't be rude."

Gloria rolls her eyes and throws me a disgusted look before she goes back to examining her fingernails, not afraid to show how little she cares about my feelings.

What a bitch.

"Brooklyn, that's... nice," Mrs. Abrams says, sounding a bit helpless. "And your parents, are they also musicians?"

My mother was a drug addict who took off with her lover when I was three years old, that is if I am to believe my father. According to him, she may have died of an overdose not long after leaving us. But I don't know if I can trust his words, considering that he's an alcoholic himself and never forgave my mother for leaving him alone with me. I have no memories of her and never tried to find her. If what little my father told me about her is true, I don’t think I’m missing out on anything.

He took care of me as well as he could, but that doesn't say a lot about his parenting skills. I haven't seen him for months, and I only check up on him once in a while to make sure that he's still alive and doing okay. Our interaction is heavily dependent on what kind of woman he is dating at the time. The bitchier they are, the less I hear from him.

"Um, no," I say, hoping that no one presses me on the matter.

"When did you start taking piano lessons?" Mr. Waldorf wants to know.

"Well, I didn't take proper lessons until junior high school," I admit. "But I've played the piano long before that."

My reply is met with awkward silence. I know that most serious musicians started their lessons way younger than that, often even before they started school, but I didn't have that opportunity. We had no money for lessons and no piano at home. All I had was Miss Knight, an elementary teacher who took pity on me and let me play the piano at our school. She even bought me sheet music and taught me a few lessons for free until I graduated. She was also the one who got me started on applying for scholarships to finance my musical education and finally take lessons at the age of fourteen.

"She made it into Juilliard, so she must be good," Mrs. Abrams comes to my rescue. "They only take the best."

"I could play something," I suggest, lifting the folder with my sheets. "Just to give you an idea of my portfolio."

I was told that the family owns a grand piano, as every self-respecting family on the Upper East Side does. Aside from my anxiety to meet the family, I have been looking forward to playing on their piano, as I'm sure it must be a more exquisite instrument than any other I've ever played.

And that assumption doesn't even come close to the truth.