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Delivery To Greer Garson

One morning several years ago, a well known Beverly Hills decorator answered the telephone.

“This is Greer Garson,” said the voice at the other end. “I have a small problem, and I wish you would help me with it.”

At sound of the famous voice, the interior decorator was like a new man. Here was one star whom he liked to work for. She always knew what she wanted and, what was more important, she was rarely dissatisfied with a job well done.

“I’ll be right over,” said the decorator.

In less than ten minutes he was sitting in the handsome living room of the El Camino home Greer then lived in. She was prepared for him. She had a notebook in her hand, a well-sharpened pencil, a yardstick, and some color cards.

“You have a cabinet shop, haven’t you?”

The interior decorator nodded.

“I’m asking that because I have rather a nice idea for a dressing table,” she explained, “and also because I’d like to have it within a week.” She started drawing rapidly—and expertly.

“I’m tired of the usual vanities with complicated drawers and folding mirrors,” she went on. “So this is what I have in mind—and it’s all done with a sheet of glass and two pillars.”

However, instead of using cut-down sections of front porch pillars from an old house—which was very much in vogue at the time—Greer wanted her pillars made to order: hollow, and with a door that opened into each, with shelves inside where she could keep her cosmetics.

“I hate a dressing table littered with creams and powder puffs and astringents,” Greer. “What do you think of my idea?”

“Fine,” said the decorator, “but the pillars have to be fluted, and that means each strip has to be carved and glued separately! One week??!”

“One week,” said Greer, firmly. “I want everything in place for my housewarming.”

The decorator sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll make it,” said Greer, cheerfully. “Oh, and another thing—no knobs on the doors. I want tassels. Here’s the color.”

The decorator perked up. “I have exactly that color in a cotton tassel.”

Greer Garson frowned. “I loathe cotton,” she said. “They have to be silk; three inches long. Take some white ones and have them dyed.

“One week,” she reminded him as he left.

The interior decorator kept his promise. A week later to the minute, he backed his station wagon into the driveway of Miss Garson’s home, right up to the front door. Letting down the back of the wagon, he pulled the two fluted pillars forward. In the bright California sun they gleamed white and shiny, and looked most impressive. Then, feeling a touch of pride in his work, he rang the bell.

The door was opened by Greer Garson’s stolid Welsh maid. She looked at the caller and at the two white fluted pillar supports. Then, before he could say a word, over her shoulder she called:

“Oh, Miss Garson—the man with the garbage cans is here!”



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