The one where I fail my first ever test

Busy day. I have to take my written driving test. Tedious. But first, the usual 9am trip to Moorpark. Then off to Larchmont.

Naturally… the phone starts beeping. Emails are flooding in. Shit. I have to remember that I must never make plans. Ever. If you're working as someone's assistant. That's it. Your plans, life, everything is on hold. It has to be. You're being paid (however poor the sum) to tend to someone else's needs. That's that. I keep forgetting that as it seems to be a 24/7 existence I'm finding really exhausting...

So... It’s off to Starbucks. Get on line and try my best to deal with the demands. There’s a meeting at the studio, a meeting at Paramount, again… but I’ve got to take my written test for my driving test. So… it’s off ten miles to Culver City to take the test.

So. Yes. The Californian written test. I fail. I got eight wrong. You’re only allowed six wrong. Maximum. They said I could come back later OR the next day. I’m livid. I’ve never failed a test in my life. In my entire life. Not as far as I can remember. I’ve done ‘badly’… ‘badly’ in a ‘I went to St Paul’s’ way (which actually means scraping by rather than getting an A or something) but I’ve never not got a grade. Nope. Thinking. Not even at university. I read through the book again and decide to go back in for another bash twenty minutes later. They gave me the same test. What the fuck? The same test. Which meant that I got 100% second time round well. Der. How stupid am I? So. I passed. Now I have to take the test itself.

Then, whoosh… it’s off to the airport to pick up Judy and Willow and drive them to the airport. They’re off to London for the weekend. Then… hang on. I suddenly remembered that the fitty from the casting is working out at the gym doing Krav Maga with Mr X. Er. I have a delivery that just has to be made… so… I race off to the gym to see Xxxx train (audition). Mmmmmm. Fit. I totally do not have to be at that gym but I need a perk. Now and again. And to see a fit working actor work out isn’t a bad perk.

I leave Mr X and then get on with my day. I’m late for something. Or someone. Always the way. But my life is Mr X's now. He owns me.

However, I managed to pick up Tamsin from the Four Seasons to take her out somewhere. We didn’t get far. Kitson’s was about it. On Robertson. Walking distance. How rubbish were we? We should have done something but, instead, we just hung out and Tamsin played with shoes and watches.

Dropped her back at the hotel and … time to go home at get changed. A friend had been invited to a ‘fashion party’ up Coldwater Canyon, 1210 Coldwater Canyon. Someone’s house. Sounded nice. Sounded posh.

I went home. Put on a dress. Put on make up. Wore heels. You know. Made an effort. There’s a photographer there. She didn’t take my picture. I was excited to see Melissa George leaving as I arrived. I wanted to tell her that I was a bit Shane and Angel fan in Home and Away. That I used to try and copy her Angel hair with her plaits and all. Sigh. I did love her. Anyway, she was leaving. I got to turn up with Jaime Murray who swanned in. I mean really swanned in.

Victoria Hervey was there. This is the fifth time I’ve seen the madam. Why the long face? And she still doesn’t ever say hello.

I met a strange man. Nice. Architect. Normal. Wife at home having a horrific pregnancy. He shared a lot. He also started bobbing his head along to the music and dancing while talking and asked me why other people don’t do that at parties… Why? Because it’s fucking annoying that’s why. Seriously. Try talking to someone when they’re bobbing their head. There wasn’t a dance floor. It wasn’t like that at all. It was just background music and he’s bobbing.

The food table was untouched, obviously. Being a fashion party and all. I hit the dips. And then felt alone. Not even the men were eating. Oh. There was some English guy called Alex. A director I think. He joined me at the noshing table and we picked our way around. We were alone. Maybe Americans don't eat at parties. Maybe models never eat. Maybe this is why I am not tiny.

Anyway, the house. Mid century American modern. Each item of furniture probably cost my year’s salary. People were just being so, well, dull. I thought I’d hate myself after attending but, you know, I felt so validated as a person. Everyone in that room was having a bad time. I really think they were. So full of SHITE.

This guy started talking to me… trying to tell me about who had photographed the house. He was being horribly pretentious. I was, in retrospect, perhaps a bit rude but it amused another couple who were at the party - Ms J and Mr B.

We hit it off. Mr B was from Brixton and in some band. I’m so shit with music. But, that’s irrelevant. The main point is that she was fun, got my humour and while my friend started talking to Mr B, we got into conversation and exchanged numbers.

They left soon after, but Ms J and I made plans to meet up over the weekend while I prowled around the party for a bit.

Before long, I saw someone I knew. Laura, who used to work at a major film company in the UK. She was there with some model, I think, called Ms M. Ms M was blank behind the eyes and no one really wanted to talk to me… they were all waiting for Laura’s business partner, Mr Houston. It was like the world was revolving around him. My friend and I decided to leave… but then came the announcement. The neighbour across the road was celebrating his daughter’s 17th birthday and had an in and out truck parked outside and was offering burgers.

I’ve never seen fashion people move to quickly and look so, well, unfashionable as the ketchup from the burgers dribbled down their cheeks. My friend and I started talking to Mr In and Out. He’s a theme park designer. He has a couple of theme parks he designed opening up in China. It’s a strange old world.

The one where I get recognised...

Breakfast with Judy, Willow and Willow’s friend Olivia. The dog (Arrow) and the Cat (Hodge) are passed out in Willow's bedroom - which is good. I don't have to walk Arrow. Good. Then, at 9.50am, Rufus turns up. We’re off to Sasha’s house. But where is Sasha’s house? Back to Rufus’s to get the address. Doh.

We drive up there and, hurrah, Nico’s there. Which was nice, I've not seen him much since arriving in LA, so all go out for a coffee on Laurel afterwards with another girl Emma. I knew Emma’s flatmate Katie. Katie killed herself the week before I came out by throwing herself off an 80ft roof. Horrific. Utterly horrific. I remember her from my last time out in LA... Despite all this, Emma seems incredibly together. I don’t know if I could be.

After the coffee, Emma’s off to look at a home, Nico leaves and Mr R and I finish up. Thing is. I’m hungry. Again. So we head to the Chateau for lunch. Now here’s where I had my Hollywood moment. Finally. I’ve dreamed of this day! As we were walking through the garden, there was a large table of 12 people and two of them went ‘Noam’! It was Justin and Kirsten – the woman I need to meet to sort out the book deal. Meanwhile, Mr R, of course, bumped into some friends. And, finally, we settled into lunch. Which was delicious. A couple came over to say hello to Mr R. It was the man who played Derek in Sunset Beach. How excited was I? Very. And his wife invited me over to dinner when they get back from Australia. I want to tell him that I’ve watched every episode of Sunset Beach. Every episode. But I manage not to and get excited about Sunset Beach. I was. However. I might have been the show's only fan. Anything Aaron Spelling created was fine by me... Sunset Beach. Sigh.

They’re all talking about Claire’s party. Do I know Claire? I don’t know. Do I? "She’s English". "Oh and she had a party last night as she’s gone away". I should know Claire. "Claire’s lovely." That's the talk for about five minutes. Eventually I give in. Who the fuck is Claire? Oh. It’s Claire Forlani and her husband Dougray Scott. Oh! Right. yes. Of course I know Claire. Not. I mean I've seen her on screen but I don't KNOW her. Jesus. But her husband. I’ve actually met him. He lives in Hammersmith and I’ve chatted to him about QPR. That’s about all I can add to the conversation. "Oh you must meet Claire." Well. Stranger things have happened. Maybe Claire and I will be bezzie mates. But. Today. I don’t think so. Perhaps when I write a movie and Claire wants to be in it. Sigh. Hollywood.

Nothing in Mr X’s schedule today. But I still go to the office. As ever. Work. Blah. Work. Blah. Make appointments. Blah. Double check appointments. Triple check appointments. Done.

I pop home and then it’s off to the Four Seasons to meet Tamsin and Ben. They’re over here on holiday, well, Ben’s working. We head to the restaurant for a meal. It’s horribly stagnant. We feel a bit, well, out of place and decide we’d be happier in the hotel room with room service but they’ve brought us bread and we’ve already demolished it and ruined the table cloth (Ben). We eat. Chat. And then head up to the room. Ben’s talking about Mickey Rourke's film The Wrestler.

We get into the lift. Wouldn't you know it? Mickey Rourke, a horrible little dog and a woman all get into the lift with us. We stop talking and exchange glances – it’s Mickey fucking Rourke! Mickey Rourke! I turn to Tamsin. ‘Oooh, you farted’. Tam’s mortified. But Mickey’s too wrapped up into his little dog and horrible woman and pays us no attention at all. Which is odd, as Tamsin's stunning.

After a gossip upstairs in the room, Ben goes to bed and then I head home. Tired. Again. At least there were no Mr X dramas today. A Mr X-free day! Result! I love Hollywood