She bought me at an auction because she thought I would look perfect in her Earl’s Court city mansion. I do look the part, I must admit. Afterwards I heard her giggling to her friend on the phone that she was so proud of her investment. That she had read in a Vogue article a small piece of furniture was the best interior design trick to break the lines of a high ceiling room.
So she picked me. A minimalistic, plush lime-green chair, looking pretty and fresh in a room full of dead furniture. Of course the others don’t like me very much. They think I am too presumptuous. But I cannot help it. It gives me the creeps to be surrounded by all these Louis the 18th chaises and settees. And with such names, they have the cheekiness to call me vain.
At least, she found a spot next to the big terrace glass doors, overlooking the rich English garden. Far enough from the other’s scornful looks, covered by a soft grey shaggy throw that protects me from the sun. When I arrived, it was all quite. Dead boring. The room was picture- perfect, just like the ones you see in the magazines my owner stacks in a studied disorder on a polished dark mahogany round table. It is tall, with curly legs and always brags about once being a cherished possession of the last Russian tsar. I don’t believe her, of course, but who can say otherwise? It’s not like any of us has ever been to Russia to check her story. For all I know, this Mathilda table can actually be an ex-KGB agent. She sure has the typical thick accent of a working class girl turned Posh. You see I maybe modern and sleek, but I’ve had my share of wealthy, knowledgeable blue-blooded British aristocracy.
For a long time, I kept to myself, rejoicing in my owner’s lavish attention that she showered over me daily. I loved to feel her hand brush over my half moon back support and her feathery weight when she sat down to read her favorite books, with a mug of tea next to her.
But alas, one day out of nowhere, honeymoon was over. She had a baby. A baby! Out of all the things she could have chosen to buy instead. You see, there are three things in a chair’s life one hopes it never happens to them: a dog, a cat and a baby. To my colleagues’ malicious satisfaction, I went from the mother’s pet to the baby’s favorite place to dribble and soil. My little chair heart breaks each time the boy smears food all over my gracious self and wipes his snot on my fine tapestry. And all this under his mother’s loving and indulgent eyes. Frankly, I don’t know who she is anymore. Slacking when other times she would have been fierce and merciless with whoever dared to think about displacing even the smallest ornament.
Good thing they have a reliable cleaner who uses Febreeze galore on me. I guess I should look at the bright side. Things could be considerable worse if this baby was a cat, scratching away at my tapestry. And I can still pride myself with being someone’s favorite in the household.