Thursday, April 30, 2009

The one where I have the Handover

Bless Ms V. She's lovely. Terribly sweet. And no idea why she got fired. Especially for a girl with no background in assistant work and a girl who's never met her boss. She gave me the run down. She made him sound terrifying. "When downloading stuff for his i-pod, you make a playlist and always miss out 'the' like 'rolling stones', not 'the rolling stones'... always get his air miles credited... always send him a schedule of his life twice a day... order him the same driver when he needs a car... he hates sitting in a back row on a plane... don't mention the dead dog (too late)... log every call... log every number... remember everything... call his publicity team.... call his agent... his agent's assistant... pick up his watch.... sort out his dish washer... and never gossip with his ex-wife. Ever." And so the list went on. She handed me a blackberry, a pile of receipts, a book of contacts and gave me a whistful smile of regret. And I felt bad.

After I drove her home and waved her goodbye, it all kicked off.

I had the phone. I had the power. Fuck.

And there was no charger for the blackberry. Fuck.

Where's the Scott Speedman DVD? Where can Warner's send a package to Mr X? Who's going to turn the pilot light on at Mr X's place (SoCal Gas as it happens... but what do I know of Californian gas companies)? What time's the pitch with the head of Paramount? Who's going to be there? What's available? Check with the co-writer... Check with Mr X... There's a fight co-ordinator in NYC. When's Mr X there for a meeting? Van Morrison tickets for the Hollywood bowl - he wants to go. I needed to get tickets. Oh and his Vacheron $10k watch. That needed picking up. A gift from his girlfriend (yet to meet). Fuck and Sundance needed some info from him. Where's the receipt for the dishwasher that was fixed? The landscape gardener needs to clear up, when's he coming? Who's fixing the screen door at the house? And then he's working across five or six projects, all of which are being co-written and I have to deal with who's who and what's what.

And my phone was dying.

And I heard that QPR had just sacked the manager. I barely flinched. I was busy finding out which project a Hollywood A-lister's working on with Mr X. Can I meet the A-Lister? I hope so.

I did it all. And I'm still not officially on staff. And... I've still not met my boss. We've been emailing. I collapsed into bed on Thursday night.

The one where I have my first week in LA

Day One

I got off the plane and arrived in LA. The journey begins. Thank God I slept on the plane. Jenny’s buddy pass got me into Business Class on United. The flight was strangely eventful however.

I sat down on the plane. Row 13. My lucky number. This is my life. This is good. I’m sitting next to an old lady. The old lady’s also a seat hogger. Elbows everywhere. She’s also got my pillow. She grudgingly gives it back to me with an imperious old lady glare. I know I’m in trouble now. This woman is one angry lady.

They’re bringing round the Champers (and Orange juice). She asks for champers, I ask for Orange juice. They arrive and she nicks my orange juice. She pours it into her champers and goes to me: “it’s a mimosa”. Whatever lady. You just nicked my juice. I ask for another juice and they glare at me. As if ‘greedy cow, you’ve already had one’. But, it’s okay, the other lady asks for more champagne. I down my juice when I get it. Fast.

The booze starts coming round and the old lady is knocking them back. She’s even hiding her full glasses and insisting they didn’t give her any booze. By now, she’s had about five. We have not exchanged a word in the last hour. Since the ‘mimosa’ comment.

My chair goes right back. It’s like a bed. I’m loving it. Then… disaster. The old lady gets up and knocks over six wine glasses, some over her, some over the floor and some over my arm. The flight attendant comes racing over to help but the old lady’s having none of it. She needs the bathroom. The stench of alcohol is quite impressive and I watch as she teeters to the bathroom.

On her return. My sensitive nose can smell it. The witch has been smoking. SMOKING! She reeks of fags.

The purser comes racing over: “Mam… have you been smoking?” The imperious witch gives him a full on glare of indignation: “I do NOT smoke.” Liar! Liar! Liar! You stink! You’ve been smoking in the bogs. I go to the loo. It stinks of smoke. I’ve just given up so it’s so pungent. I use the other loo and decide to complain: “um… the old lady next to me, really stinks of cigarettes” or something like that. The crew are joyous. They knew it! She’d even left fag ash over the seat. I finally move seats.

I get a seat with no one next to me, I put the chair out in full, wrap up in the blanket and pass out. I haven’t slept in two days. The old lady is no longer in my thoughts.

I drift in and out but, in total, get around six hours of much needed sleep. Which is good because I can’t lift my bags so need all the strength I can muster. Especially on arrival. It’s wonderfully hot and I’ve got to drive on landing. My brain is so fuzzy. Am I really doing this? Am I really moving to America?

Once getting through customs (and being sniffed up by a dog - is sniffed up even a phrase? No? It is now) and head off to the car rental and drove to Judy's house (the lawyer I stay with when I'm here) and having unpacked I'm off to meet a friend and making an appointment to meet Ms V. Poor old Ms. She's Mr X's assistant. Or was. And was fired for me. And I'm meeting her to take over her job, life, career and all that. Poor cow.

So. I met a friend and his friend B asked me to ravage him. Which was nice. But I pointed out that I couldn't even muster enough energy for a hand shandy so he'd have to keep. He did offer me a place to stay at his if I needed it. Again, which was nice. Bed came early. I was fucking shattered.

Up at 4am. Emails from Mr X, my new boss, and my home to deal with. I'm still trying to rent out my flat. Thanks to the poxy time difference I had to deal with all that. People are demanding and they only want money.

Then... I'm up at 7am. And whooosh. My life's beginning.