Millicent sat before her petite, ornate Empire desk and composed her invitations with calligraphic precision. This was to be a particularly special event as it was in celebration of the person that Garbo Towers was named after: the great, Greta Garbo. She hummed softly as she caressed the handmade paper with each stroke from her quill pen, shaping the letters with an artistic license achieved from a lifetime of practice. Mauve ink on a pale lilac paper was the choice for this occasion; it suited the image she held of sultry, satin-gowned women and handsome tuxedoed men.

Style was very important to Millicent as was substance. Consequently, she had made it her business over time, to research all her tenants, keeping a precise record of background, employment preferences and duration, and personal characteristics. Not all the current residents fit exactly into her template but Millicent was realistic, and generally satisfied enough to weigh her whims against her economic requirements.

The weather was complying with a steady temperature in the mid-seventies that was promised to extend through the late evening with clear black skies, permitting a view of the vast array of stars. Millicent patted the ink dry on the last invitation with her large blotter and sat back to rest her arthritic fingers; she would do the envelopes later, meanwhile, she had to check with the caterer for the cocktail treats and the special cake.

She leaned her head back and gazed fondly about her apartment, her eyes caressing each item that had been collected with loving care and placed with similar attention. Old movie posters, photographs, bits and pieces of memorabilia from the golden era of entertainment decorated the antique furniture. Lace shawls draped with a snooty insouciance over the heavily stuffed sofas and chairs. Doilies supported slender vases on even more slender tables and the sun from the French glass windows danced in kaleidoscopic waves over the tasseled Tiffany shades.

Heavy dark rugs, watched over by gilt-framed paintings, formed an irregular path through the generously sized apartment, ending at the entrance to Millicent's bedroom. Inside stood a massive canopied bed shrouded in velvet and satins with huge satin pillows nestling against the carved headboard. This was her palace, her escape in tribute to her idol where she was more then content to be... left alone.

However, Millicent's reclusive bent served her only in moments of sad reflection, normally, she loved to be among company, the grand dame of footlights and celluloid sharing herself with imagined admirers. She lifted the receiver off the gold Daffodil telephone and dialed her favourite caterer, Pierre Boussar at La Petite Bouchée. Crab, caviar, champagne.

With infinite patience, Pierre assured Millicent that his menu would spoil the palates of her guests for any other food ever again. Delighted, she rang off and from the desk drawer took out the box of envelopes for her stationery. Dipping the quill in the bottle of ink, she began once again her artistic decoration of the envelopes.

*****

Stanley absently scratched Haggis' ears to settle his barking as he watched the young woman trudge up the front walk to the stairs. Female postmen. Postwomen. Postperson. He shook his head, the world was changing in a way he never imagined. His eyes shifted to the flap in his door and he saw it lift slightly as the bundle of mail slid through and fell to the carpet.

"Fetch boy," he ordered, and Haggis scampered to the door nudging the bundle around until he could get a grip with his teeth.

"Good boy," Stanley said, rubbing the dog's head. He removed the elastic and sorted through the pile, discarding the advertising and the food fliers, leaving him with two bills and the easily recognizable missive from Millicent Degrew. He tore open the expensive stock and slipped out the invitation reading it with studied care.

"Did you know, Haggis old son, Greta Garbo made her film debut eighty years ago in her home country? Of course you did, we've been going to these celebrations for the past fifteen anyway, haven't we?" He set the invitation on his desk and opened the bills.

Stanley didn't mind attending Molly's little fetes; he found them a welcome break from his lonely days hunched over the model ships with Haggis his only companion. It had been different eighteen years ago, before Wilma passed. There was always shopping to do, theatre to attend or choosing a different restaurant for sampling. That all ended abruptly one bitter cold winter night when the streetcar they were riding jumped an icy rail on a curve and slammed into several parked cars.

Stanley was knocked unconscious immediately and later in the hospital when he came around, the doctor informed him that his wife had died at the scene. He was very sorry. "Not as sorry as us, eh Haggis?" He sniffled, surprised that his thoughts had ended spoken aloud. "Ah well, boy, 'tis done and done and we soldier on, eh? Maybe tonight I can scrounge you some of that crab meat. You like that don't you boy?"

Upstairs, Brenda signed for another huge bundle of manuscripts and lugged all her mail to her bed, dropping the pile with a huge sigh. The lilac envelope stood out from the mess and she picked it up, knowing exactly whom it was from. Brenda always admired the graceful script that Millicent performed and she strolled about her room, reading the invitation with a theatrical zest.

"My dear Miss Carlisle, it is with the greatest pleasure that I extend my invitation to you and one guest, to attend the celebration of the anniversary of the great Greta Garbo's debut performance as the Countess Elizabeth Dohna in the Swedish film The Atonement of Gosta Berling, in the entrancing and relaxing gardens of Garbo Towers. Cocktails will be served at seven of the clock this Friday, followed by Chef Pierre Boussar's magnificent hors d'oeuvres, anniversary cake and sinfully exotic champagne. Suitable attire is graciously requested. Your humble hostess, Millicent Degrew."

Brenda squealed with delight; if she had prose like that to read all day her job would be a full time pleasure. She read it again, pausing at the phrase 'one guest'. She knew very well that Millicent intended that to mean a male escort and that would be great if she could get one. Unfortunately, Brenda's long hours alone, reading, left her little time to meet any men and there was no way she was bringing one of the jocks from work.

She went back to her seat on the tiny balcony and thought about maybe asking Darlene, they could celebrate her new job at the same time. She would wait until later and give her a call at work. Brenda sighed aloud and went back to her reading.