The one where I get off in court for the first time...

The rest of America had today off. It’s President’s Day after all. IO’s boyfriend AS needed picking up from somewhere and then… it was off to meet Mr X at home in Zuma again. At least the drive is stunning. So stunning. Las Virgines. Can’t beat that. I’m at Mr X’s for hours. Doing stuff. You know. Stuff.

Mr X was meant to be in Mexico today. I was so looking forward to him going. TWO DAYS OFF. Yay! However, with everything looking a bit tits up, he’s here. In LA. I’m on the verge at the moment. On the verge. So miserable and I didn’t come to LA to be miserable. I shouldn't be miserable, I should be happy that I have a job. A job in the INDUSTRY. But I can't see that right now. I just know that I've been having nightmares where I'm attacked by buzzing blackberries. No. Seriously. They've been flying at me - attacking me - buzzing - and I can't stop the noise.

Oh piss. I got a text from Mr X. It’s nearly midnight. He wants me to pick him up at 8.30am tomorrow. BUT… I’m due in court. At 8.30am. I tell him that I’m in court. No response. I call. He’s on a call. There's an ongoing issue with the film... There’s a constant stress and I’m at the front line.

I order a car to pick him up – and email the studio to make sure that that would be okay. I tell Mr X about the car. In an email. He’s still not answering. It's now 1am. I wait. And wait. Nothing. So... I go to sleep.

The following morning (five hours later)

6am. The emails start. Why did I order a car? Why did I pick that time? Would he be paying? Okay a) he asked me to pick him up at 8.30 so I ordered the car at 8.30am. b) I checked with the studio. They’re paying. C) Aaaaaaargh. You’re getting looked after by the studio. But he’s angry. Why aren’t I there?

I explain that a) I’m in court. B) I sorted all this out last night. C) Aaaaaaargh. God I'm wrong for this job. My skin is nowhere near thick enough.

Okay. So…. Today I was in court. And… of course. I was late. Everything was against me. The lights. The traffic. The parking. The security detail at the court house. The lift. The crowds. Then… of course. I got the wrong court again. Sweating I raced in there. And they called out my name. My hand went up. I looked around the court. This time round, there didn’t seem to be the harder looking crims from earlier. Mostly pissed off professionals in business suits who’d turned left on a red light or something like that. And a woman who only speaks Ukranian. She’s got a translator with her. It’s all a bit comical but I can’t believe how loud my heart is. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A few people are getting off. I count the number of people compared to the cops. We’re on the left, the cops are on the right. If my cop’s a no show… I’m off the hook and get my $92 back. Boom. Boom. Boom. Someone’s cop has turned up. He changes his plea to not guilty. So. That’s the game. Okay. At least I saw that. And now me.

No cop! Whooooop! I’m free!

However, the relief doesn’t last long. It’s back to the studio to meet Mr X and get everyone’s lunch orders again.

It’s my age. I just, now, feel too old to do all this. This isn’t my life. But I now know that someone would kill to be there. It’s an entry level job. I’m trying. I really am. They’re talking about Pittsburgh. There’s no money to get me to Pittsburgh. So what am I to do? I should be leaving next week. If I’m going. Mr X and I need to talk. I’ve checked his emails. They’re still talking about an assistant… I can’t bear this any more. It's the uncertainty. Do I have a job? Or don't I? What's going on...? Do I want the job? Or don't I? I'm too scared to just leave.

I’m so clumsy when it comes to lunch orders. The place to pick up the food is about four blocks away and then some. And I have trouble holding things. The bags are heavy, my heart is heavier and, as ever, the iced tea is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m on the verge of tears. I know it’s only getting food but to have this as my life. I want to romantise it and say that this is the best job ever now that I’m in LA. But… It’s not. I’m alone and I’m carrying food and I’m xx years old. This is the job of someone ten years younger and I’m struggling to cope with it all. I know I should be able to deal with it.

Anyway, they’re all in conference and I realise… it’s Tuesday. I want to go meet the Brits on Robertson. but I’m going to have to get Mr X home. That means driving him. And maybe even at 9pm. Right now I’m so filled with resentment that I don’t know where to turn or what to do. This is so the job of an assistant and I'm freaking out. this is not good. I'm a wreck by now. A wreck.

I’m on the phone to car hire companies – I need to get him to a car hire place but he won’t leave. I’m on the phone, I’m on the web. I’m trying so hard. I’m running out of time. Sweat. Sweat. Sweat.

Thank god for JJK. The line producer. He’s got a contact. They’re going to deliver a car to the studio. I could kiss him. I really could. Thankfully, the meeting at Lionsgate is over by 7ish. I’m free. I’m out of there. All I have to do is drive AT home. Yes. I’m also a driver now for his mates. We chat. He tells me not to go to Pittsburgh. That it would be a mistake. He’s so so right. He points out I’d probably have a fit and walk off set. In the middle of the night. I don’t need to do that. I just don’t need to go.

The next day

9am Moorpark. Tired. But no Mr X today. Then. At 1pm. It’s off to the LC. Mis C’s celebrating and I go to join them all for lunch afterwards but… I’ve got an appointment with Theresa at 3pm. Theresa is the psychic I saw in London JUST before I got the job out here. As in hours beforehand when I didn’t know what was going on.

Anyway… she’s all full of the joys of spring – yet angry. I have it all on a plate. My life. It’s all waiting for me, as long as I put in the effort. And that’s the hard part. Apparently my commitment cards are there. It’s all here for me. She couldn’t be more delighted. So… there we go. I’m going to be okay. It’s all going to work out for me. However, today I’m really tired. Really tired. I’m always exhausted working for Mr X. But… this I know. I’m not going to go to Pittsburgh. I have no desire to go there.

Anyway, I have a carpark pass for the studio so I’m there now doing some work for the Telegraph. I can be online there and do some work so that’s all good I’m enjoying that. I’m still, at present, the acting West Coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph and all I’m doing is churning out article after article. Just hoping that they remember to pay me. And soon. I need this money. I’ve had news from the UK. My flat has flooded (pictured above just before I left the UK with my stuff in storage).

A burst water pipe. I just can’t deal with this. It’s like another nail in the coffin of my already poor financial status. I’m just hoping that the insurance will deal with it but…. I just don’t know right now. I’m hoping that it’ll be okay but we’ll see. We’ll see. I have tenants but the rent has been eaten up from day one and that’s so depressing. I’m so frustrated with all this. I’ve not made a cent. I've put up a photo of the flat, just before I moved out. God I'm tired.

fuck

The one where I don't have a phone signal...

The morning - spent that reading the book proof of 'Anvil: The Story of Anvil' up at SG's. SG is correcting the book proof and I'm reading. I actually laughed out loud (or snickered) a few times. Two hours later. I’m done. I’ve read it. It's as good as the film.

I met up with JB later. She took me to one of the worst dive bars I’ve been to since I arrived in LA. Brilliant. I have to go back! The exterior looked like a Swiss Chalet. The interior stunk of beers and men. It was Super Bowl day and the place stuck of super bowel. Awful. Swaying men. Fucked off their nuts. It was called Ye Olde xxxxxxx. I wish I could remember. Anyway, an hour later JB and I were off to Dom’s Pizza in Los Feliz to meet her friends. The backfat story came back on to the table and one of the guys knew someone at the LA Weekly. Now they want to do a story. Back fat’s taking off.

During dinner… Mr X was emailing. A lot. The meeting at the major studio at 1pm tomorrow - that we’d spent all weekend sorting out – he can’t make it. He said he could never make it. Oh poo. The studio isn't happy. It’s the evening and we’re talking about tomorrow. The emails from Mr X are coming thick and fast. THICK AND FAST. I’m panicking. But I’m also at dinner and this looks so rude. My solution? I email back. “Can I call you in an hour… I’m on a date.” His response? “On a date? Turn the blackberry off and let’s talk in the morning.” See. He’s reasonable. Anyway… an hour later I get the email… “I can make 1pm.” All sorted. And I got to have a nice dinner with some new people.

The next day - 7.30am - I'm up. And... by 10am... I'm at L's place trying to sell ad space for his brochure. I’ve never sold anything before BUT I need to do some extra work. I just don’t know what’s going on and I like working. I need to do as many things as I can in my life. I don’t want to go home. That’s my motivating factor here. I’m not ready. I’ve just heard from Grazia Australia – they want to buy Backfat saved my life. Meanwhile... I'm at L's making phonecalls and sending emails. I’m not a natural saleswoman. I thought I might be but I feel self conscious. I’ve never tried selling things. Urgh. By 2pm I’ve had it. I can’t sell ice to Eskimos and I can’t sell ad space in a magazine. But I tried. And I’ll keep trying.

I’ve arranged to meet M to walk Norton up and down Runyon. I’m going to lose my fucking Muffin Top if it’s the last thing I do. So much for ‘no diet’ – it’s LA. I can’t settle with this damn muffin top even though it saved my life, well done them but now their job has been done. Time to move on. M and I walk. It’s good. There are a lot of dogs. Crazy people. And dogs. I’m just in an area with a signal and my phone goes crazy.

OH! Typical. The moment I'm out of range... It seems that Mr X's GPS doesn’t work and he’s lost in LA. I’m on Runyon with MK. He’s going slightly crazy. The numbers don’t work. Nothing works. And I can’t do anything. My Blackberry is going in and out… Instead I call J at the production company to guide him to his meeting. I can’t believe I’m getting so stressed out about this. I'm actually freaking out. The company have given us the wrong contact numbers. And why doesn't Mr X's GPS work? I'm going to have to fix that with BMW as soon as possible. Thank god for Ms J. She guides Mr X around LA thanks to google maps and a trusty computer.

As ms J's guiding Mr X to his meeting, the pair of us continue our walk. Home and it’s time to shower. Time’s running out. I’m due at JM’s house at half six. The two of us head to the Beverley Hills Hotel. I’ve not been there since I moved here. I’d forgotten how much I love luxury. “Hello Miss Friedlander…” “Can we help you Miss Friedlander?” I feel like a princess. The gardens of the hotel are lush and filled with bungalows, the exterior floor isn’t grass, gravel or concrete but carpet. Carpet? But then it so rarely rains here. Anyway, after an overpriced peppermint tea (however they did bring tacos with guacamole, sour cream and salsa – dinner!). All’s well.

Then. Bing. Another email from Mr X. The film might be falling apart so we’re trying to fix up meeting after meeting. It's getting later but we've got to sort this out tonight. So it's email after email after email. London's waking up. No sleep tonight.

THE NEXT MORNING

By 8am I’m at Runyon Canyon with Norton. Off for a walk. I’m due to meet E, D and C. They’re starting at the bottom, I’m at the top. 8.30am. No sign of them. Nothing. And I’ve got no signal. Turns out there was no parking and D and C did the walk in record time. I, meanwhile, was huffing and puffing up the hill. The muffin top must go is now my mantra. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. And due in Zuma by 9.30am to pick up a check. That’s it. Just a check. The reason? Mr X’s girlfriend is being given a gift. It's stunning.

So… I’m racing to Zuma to pick up a cheque to pay the woman making the gift because Mr X won't do a bank transfer... is this something not done in America? Thankfully it’s a stunning drive. I do Las Virgines and at least I get to look at the incredible scenery. There’s NOTHING to beat this. NOTHING. So I’m grateful for that. By 11.45am, I've been to the house, driving to the woman's house in Westwood, picked up the gift and now I'm on my way to West Hollywood to drop someting off at the casting office.

I park up and there’s MG, who works at the casting office. She’s with two men. I don’t know who they are. Though... one of them looks kind of familiar. As I get into the office, R’s in the meeting with one of the men. Fuck me if it isn’t Kenneth Brannagh. I love Sir Ken. Love him. How many times can I walk up and down outside the office to look at Sir Ken. I can’t. But I love him. Time to go before I totally humiliate myself. Off to the Java detour where I finally do some writing and then, being a glorious day, MK comes to meet me and we sit outside. God I love the sun here. It makes being here so much better. I’m due to meet SG this afternoon before he goes so I’m head back up to Nico’s to walk the other dog.

I’ve decided I hate the two words ‘Heads Up’. I use them. Everyone uses them… “Just to give you the heads up” so… ‘heads up… it’s going to be rough’ etc., I can’t stand it. But. I’ve taken to using them. Anyway, J calls. She’s got a heads up for me. So… it seems, according to J, that they’re moving to Pittsburgh in two weeks. So I’ll be losing my job in two weeks. What the fuck? And no one’s told me? I hate all this mixing up of stuff. All I can do is my job but it would be nice to know. I don’t know if I want to go to Pittsburgh or not. I really don’t. I want to stay here.

Anyway. That’s my head’s up. J, meanwhile, is getting so involved in everything. Fingers in pies. Not just in them but jammed in. Hard. She’s ramming her fingers in there with abandon. She wants a producer role on this film, and Mr X's brother’s fighting for her… I want to work on this film too but I'm exhausted. Part of me feels like sod the lot of you - especially now that I've heard that I might be off the project anyway... But maybe I will be. Just no one’s telling me and I’m being a pussy and can’t confront.

At 4.45pm I’m up at SG’s house. His assistant’s there and they’re putting the final touches on the extras for the Anvil DVD. They’re brilliant. I mean just brilliant. I love this film and truly believe it’s going to explode. I’m bursting with pride before heading home when the masseuse arrives and totter back down the hill.

By 8.30pm I'm out with the English crew on Robertson. I’m sitting round trying to concentrate when my blackberry’s buzzing. It’s 8.30pm. “Noam. Call me.” I ignore it. My phone rings (silently). I ignore it. It’s Mr X. “Noam. Call me at the house.” My phone buzzes. “Noam. Call.” I leave the meeting. I’d trying to hard to meditate. I eventually leave. I can’t lose patience here. He’s my boss. Remember - you do anything and everything he asks. Personal time is NOT an option.

The problem? Just some clarification. There are emails coming in from the studio and J. They're thick and fast. Marketing meetings, meetings about the films, meetings with people and it's just on going and on going. It's exhausting. Everyone wants a slice of Mr X. Everyone. I'm trying to protect him, he's still writing a draft of the film and there's a lot going on. A lot. I'm trying hard to keep it together and make sure everyone gets what they need and that he gets what he needs. And what he needs is no one to disturb him. I'm just getting a handle on this job. Basically... your life is over. End of.

I’m all over the shop. I’m tired. I join P, S and friends for dinner. I’m still reeling. I can’t concentrate. I get home. I’m tired tired tired. Time for bed.