Phone A Friend

1

Alyzeh Teller lived in a spacious flat on Vine Street, Hollywood. It was big, and grand, and expensive. But she could afford it. Being a Friend to millionares and celebrities paid well.

It had a pool, and a full kitchen, and fancy furniture. All Alyzeh had ever dreamed of in a house. Growing up, she had never had any of these; but now that she was a Friend, money was no matter.

Of course, as a Friend she was not Alyzeh Teller; it would not do to disclose real names. Instead, she was Desdemoda River, glamorous, rich, successful. Interesting. A good Friend.

Desdemoda was sitting in front of the television, watching the celebrity news channel. It was good to know who was who in this town of fame.

Then the phone rang. A distant, tinny sound, but one that Desdemoda got regularly. She stretched herself off the sofa and walked into the spacious hallway, where an elegant sideboard balanced an old-fashioned phone - a big red one where you had to rotate a wheel to select numbers.

"Hello?"

"We need you."

The three words were uttered by an elegant, crisp voice. Without waiting for more, Desdemoda hung up, walked back to the living room, switched off the television and walked out the front door, stopping only to pick up a fashionable leather jacket.

There was a car outside. The driver knew where to go.

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The Friend Agency was a gathering place for rich, lonely souls - and Friends. Desdemoda was a good Friend - she was discreet, and intelligent, and funny. Talents the agency valued.

The Agency was discreet in its business, but not in its premises.

It was a large, glass building nestled among the glamorous shops and boutiques of Rodeo Drive. 'The Friend Agency' was proclaimed in large, neon letters above the doorway. To someone looking at the interior, they may have assumed that it was a hotel or fancy apartment building of some sort - the doorman in front of the entrance and the swanky revolving doors and plush carpets suggested so.

But the office behind the façade did not.

As soon as Desdemoda entered, the receptionist behind the swish desk glanced up.

"What room are you staying in?"

"I'm not looking for a room. I'm looking for my Friends."

That was all it took. The receptionist tapped a solid red fingernail on a few buttons on her keyboard, and promptly handed Desdemoda a keycard to room 307.

"Enjoy your stay."

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The offices of The Agency resembled how one might imagine the offices of a celebrity magazine might look like.

Coffee cups crowded every surface.

People in glamorous outfits ran around shouting important names.

A printer was constantly buzzing.

And in the midst of it all, a young, freckled intern spotted Desdemoda and handed her a file.

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It was a regular client - an elderly millionare, a memento of 'Old Hollywood' and classic films. He lived outside of Los Angeles, in a large, luxurious, mostly empty mansion. And he wanted a Friend.