Upgrading by Simon Brooke

to.
    “Oh, what shall I have? David, what do you think?” says Farrah, obviously glad still to be the centre of attention.
    “I’ll have a Bud,” says David in a strong Geordie accent.
    “Now I can’t drink champagne, my hairdresser says nothing fizzy, it makes my hair brittle.”
    “White wine?” I suggest.
    “So acidic,” says Farrah, staring at the drinks cabinet. “Oh, Marion, what do you think?”
    “The boys are drinking Absolut and cranberry juice,” says Marion, breaking off from Daria. I am about to point out that this is acidic as well, but then realize that if Anna Maria doesn’t get Farrah something to drink soon we’ll never eat.
    “A vodka,” says Farrah triumphantly. “Yes, why not? A vodka please, with ice and lemon.”
    Immediately Anna Maria sets about making it for her and Farrah, clearly not wanting to lose the momentum she has built up turns round and asks, “So what have we all been up to today?”
    It is a completely unanswerable question, mainly because no one has done anything, and it is clearly just an excuse for her to tell us about her day, which she does. “Marion, I went to Joe’s for lunch today with Vincente. David joined us for coffee after.” Farrah squeezes David’s hand as they sit together on a settee; she is pert and upright, he is sitting back with legs open wide and face set in an uninterested, slightly aggressive way. “Anna Maria, I spent this morning throwing out old clothes I never wear and I found a couple of dresses that would be perfect for you. David, don’t you think those two dresses would look great on Anna Maria?” David nods unconvincingly, obviously not over-exercised on the subject of dresses.
    She prattles on. Marion mildly amused, Daria fuming, Christopher Maurice-Jackson listening politely and the boys smirking quietly. David is taking us in one by one. “Us?” I mean the others.
    After a while, I notice that Christopher Maurice-Jackson has moved away from everyone else. He is standing, legs apart, arms loosely folded with one hand touching his chin. He stares intently at a section of wall beside the kitchen door as if it were the most important thing in the world.
    “Marion,” he says, measuring the space in mid-air with his hands.
    She looks across.
    “I have an exquisite Beidermier table that would fit in here beautifully. The proportions are right, the width is right and it would give this room a little lift, a touch of—”
    “Yeah, like I really need some more furniture,” says Marion, finishing her champagne. “Three houses full and then some.” Three houses? I’m intrigued. Christopher Maurice-Jackson pauses for a moment. “Just a thought,” he says, pained. Turning back to the group he sees me smiling and begins to scowl. “You ought to get rid of something, then,” he suggests, still looking at me.
    Marion gets up. “Let’s eat,” she says. “I’m starved.” She squeezes my neck gently as she walks past me to the table. She allocates places quickly. We sit down, no one particularly pleased to be next to anyone else. I have Farrah and David on one side, which isn’t bad, and Marion on the other.
    Daria, who has managed to put herself the far side of Marion, gives a little laugh and touches Marion’s hand.
    “We played such an amusing game at Marina’s the other night,” she says, laughing again at something that just cannot be that funny. The two French guys start laughing as well but this makes her nervous so she stops and eyes them suspiciously, then she continues, “We played a game where you have to say who from history you would invite to your ideal dinner party.”
    “Not you, that’s for sure,” one of the French guys whispers to the other.
    “Who would you invite, Marion? I wanted Marilyn Monroe, Mozart, Einstein, Peter the Great, Tutankhamen, and Keats. Imagine the conversation!”
    “Yeah, great, except they wouldn’t be able to understand each other,” sniggers one of the French guys. I