The one where I end up paying for some girl...

Another morning in LA. A bit grey today. I’m due to meet my friend Roof at 11.45 and I don’t know what time it is anymore as every clock of mine is giving a different time. I get to our meeting early. Far too early. But he’s there. I can’t tell you how nice it is to see a familiar face from home. Especially a good-looking face from home.

He has to run off as he’s taking his brother to the airport. We arrange to meet later. Maybe but considering his plans I don’t think it’s going to happen. Still, briefly, it was nice to see someone I know from home. I feel a bit homesick today actually.

1.30pm. Lunch with some friends at ‘The Grove’. Now this is where I get pissed off. It’s my own fault. I was a pussy. So. We’re having a lovely lunch. One of LA’s most handsome boys, Chris. He is just beautiful. And then another guy and some girl I didn’t know. We ate. I’m being really frugal with money at the moment – I have none – so ordered lightly.

The bill came. ‘Hey, I’ll pay for you…’ said the other guy to the girl. The check/bill came and the other guys said "put $27 on mine" with all the authority in the world as he smiled at the girl. Chris and I looked at each other and said we’d split the rest as he had a salad to my omlette. Our bills came = we were paying $29. What? Huh? How could that be? Oh… because the other guy wasn’t paying for the girl. We were. I had no intention of paying for her but being a pussy I didn’t say anything. I was livid. And he got the credit for paying for her lunch. I should have said something. So, really, it’s all my fault. BUT I have learned a lesson. When going for lunch with ‘friends’, I’m going to get my bill separately and pay for what I’ve had. End of.

3pm. A BBQ at Anoushka’s house. She wasn’t there. Her flat mate George was. I met some nice people. One gay (guy), I think he was gay, Jason from New Zealand, we knew some people in common as he used to be a concierge back in London at the Sanderson. Anyway… he’s hooking me up with a gay who’s a PA to some director on the Paramount lot. I could do with tips.

I then bumped into another friend, Diane, who I’d met on a panel trip to a prison last time I was here in March. She’s very sweet. Caring. It’s nice to meet some caring people out here as I’m really feeling lonely today despite the fact it’s been busy busy busy.

7pm. Off to dinner with Mr B. He of the ‘ravaging’ from day one. Looks like Giovanni Ribisi, sounds like GR and women flock to him. The warning signals are going off in my head. We’ll be friends. I think. Nothing more. ‘Danger. Danger.’ That’s what my instincts saying. Shame. But there we go. He’s heterosexual as well. We have dinner at Toast and join this guy Mr L (as well as some one called Ashton – not him – a girl called Kira – not her and someone called Amy). Mr L… I was sadly excited to find out (he told me) that he was in the pilot of Beverly Hills 90210. That alone is enough for me. I love that show. Anyone who knows me knows I’m an Aaron Spelling freak. Surely? But, the more I find out about Mr L, the glow of 90210 begins to wane. He’s 38. Good. He’s an actor. Very bad. Bye bye Mr L.

9.30pm. Back to Mr B’s. I’d left my car there. I have an invite to go in to his.

10.30pm. Home. Shagged Mr B. Course I didn’t. Promise. I got in my car and drove home. And started my emails. Mr CAA’s glasses are now in my home. So I emailed his assistant at CAA… They’re still freaking out about these damn glasses, more castings for Mr X's film. More dramas. More airmiles and… things in London are falling apart. The tenants in Warwick road are causing a fuss about everything and I have no more money to sort this. I’m so horribly depressed. It’s just money though. I wish I had it to be depressed about. I really must remember to breathe.

I go to bed.

3.30am. My blackberry is buzzing non-stop with emails. The estate agent is on the warpath. I’m fucked. Horribly fucked.