The one where I'm horribly sick...

Another day at the studio. I just have to sit there while Mr X runs around, there's nothing for me to do. There probably is but my heart is not in this right now. I'm so tired. So so tired. And so so confused. This time round it’s his BMW to deal with. The thing is it’s being repaired BUT he has to sign the waver allowing them to let him fix it.

Mr X is not happy. There’s a note pad he needs in his car. He wants it. He wants me to drive to South Bay to pick it up but I pointed out that there’s a man coming from BMW in South Bay and he’ll bring it with him. A proper assistant would drive to South Bay. In heavy traffic. Then drive to Zuma. In rush hour. God I'm shit at this job. I'm beginning to feel sorry for Mr X. He deserves someone who'll drop everything. The signs are there. I can't do this job properly.

At 12.30pm the man’s there. Mr X signs. He hands over the note pad. It’s the wrong one. Mr X goes apoplectic. I mean properly mental. I had fucked up. But how could they get the wrong one? What was I thinking? I should go down there immediately. I’m well pissed off. Well pissed off. I don’t want to drive all the way down there. This is ridiculous. Mr X storms off and goes to meet the DP. South Bay is calling... Shit. This is not a good day.

I call BMW. The notepad had fallen off the backseat in the crash. It was lodged under the front seat. No where in sight. No where. The pages had gone all over the place. Mike from BMW, thankfully, lives in West Hollywood so I don’t have to move to South Bay but Mr X’s not impressed. He wants me to go to South Bay. But… first… I have to get their lunch.

It’s a walk. A long one. But… off I trot. No worries. As I walk down there, I think about my life. What am I doing again? And why? I’m getting shouted at about a notepad. I’m getting covered, on a regular basis, with pumpkin spice venti lattes – I’m clumsy. What can I say? Why am I here? I’m a bag of nerves. I don’t know if I’m going to have a job next week. No one’s said anything. I think I might be trying to fuck up this job on purpose, just so I get let go before I quit. I don't know. But something's not gelling here. I'm not gelling. I'm shaking. Regularly. I'm making more and more mistakes because I'm so nervous. I'm scared - doing a job in fear is not good. I'm falling apart - I've not been like this since I was bullied at my first job on Manchester United Magazine. Fuck.

Mr X’s stressed about the film and I’m getting it in the neck. Literally. My neck is stiff and painful and I want this to end.

Anyway… I pick up the soups and salad and get back to the studio. Waddya know? It’s cold. So I’m just putting the soup in the microwave when Mr X comes flying out of the meeting room. “NOooooooooo. Noam! Noooooo.” Huh? “Don’t nuke the soup? What are you doing? I can’t drink it now.”

Oh shit.

Erm.

I apologise. Too little too late.

“But it was only 20 seconds.”

“Don’t you know how bad that is? You don’t microwave.”

Oh well. Shit. Bollocks. Noam fucks up again. Sigh.

I head upstairs. I’ve been made acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. I’ve got stories to write. This is what I probably should be doing. Rather than being bawled out for microwaves and note pads.

I get the note pad that evening. I’m spent.

It’s the Toscars this evening. Brits in LA. We did a parody of ‘The Reader’. The posted picture is of Naketa, painting one of our props for the film. By the time I get there I’m so tired. I went to MacDonalds before hand to get a filet of fish. That’s how run down I was. My head is pounding. Migraine alert. Again. I just want to be sick.

I’m at Life. On Wilshire. And I really want to be sick. So badly. But there’s no where to go. My friends are arriving. I wish I could muster some energy. Something. The Telegraph get in touch. They want a story but there’s no wireless here. I do it on my blackberry. Ridiculous. I really want to be sick. Physically sick. My migraine is really bad. I've not had one in a while. The last was a few months ago when the girls were visiting. I was sick as a dog then and I'm feeling like being sick again... pounding. Pounding. Pain. Vision. Blurred.

I do the story. I smile with my friends. I’m close to a breakdown. I know it. I’m just on the verge of something and it’s not pretty…. Everyone leaves and I can go. My friends have gone. I’ve been a rubbish friend. I can’t focus. I’m trying hard not to cry. I don’t know what’s wrong anymore. I’m thinking about notepads and stupidity and bmw’s and the maccyd’s is churning inside me.

I get home at 11.45pm. I’m horribly. Unbearably sick and my head is ringing. RINGING. I can’t sleep because I’m in so much agony. I’ve not been this sad for some time…

Bollocks. I've been sick. I'm always ill when my head's pounding. Not good. Not good at all. I really feel like I'm messing my life up.

The one where I drive to Zuma and back and Zuma again

I’m due at Mr X’s at 9.30am. So. At 8.30am I’m up. I’ve got my packed suitcases and head off to Mr X’s. Tired. Oh. So. Tired. I get to Zuma. His daughter's there. She's very sweet. Very friendly. Very loving. Not a brat, which is refreshing and terrifically bright. I like her. She's watching TV and there's no sign of Mr X. The buff mate's there but... where's Mr X? It's the Hollywood culture - hurry up and wait. So I wait. he appears at nearly 11am.

He’s as nice as pie. He doesn’t even mention the BMW. The BMW I'd lost sleep over that night as I was in total fear that I'd done something wrong again. Anway, I take him through the car. Show him how to use it. We go through all the other stuff. Busy busy busy. I’m out of there by 1.30pm. Finally. We’ve talked about charity work, we’ve talked about his upcoming schedule, play tickets… all that jazz. I think it's all sorted out. Good. Few. It is the weekend after all...

And... I've got my suitcases in my car. I go off to look at an apartment in Hollywood. It smelled of wee. And overlooked a police station. Aargh. But then... a text from Roof. His flat's going to be empty in December so I can flat sit! Yay! Result! Quite what I'm going to do in a three-bedroom three bathroom apartment I don't know but I'm so excited!

The following morning, we're all meeting at Sacha's house and arrange to have lunch at the Chateau with Roof, Nico, Nina and friends. I'm so excited I end up locking my keys in my car - WITH THE ENGINE RUNNING. What an idiot. My cell doesn't work so I can't let anyone know that I'm going to be late. I'm freaking out. Thank god for Nico and triple AAA.

Lunch was nice and then I got to see my school friend Dan. And his newborn son Henry. And his fiancee Krystyna. Yay! Friends from home. Back to Nico's and while reversing out of his drive on Mulholland I manage to scrape the entire side of the car by reversing into a pole. Jesus.

Then... it's my driving test following a two-hour driving lesson with some freak who decided to tell me about all the famous people he'd taught... I say famous. They were usually the second assistant to x. Or the third assistant to y. He's probably going to tell people he had that Mr X's assistant in his car last week. Anyway. No matter. I passed first time. Yay! I have been driving about 18 years so really... but it's different here. It's the other side of the road for starters. Wrong.

And then... Emails from Mr X from 7pm onwards. He’s not happy. There's some stuff going down. It's not that he's not happy with me, I think, just that other people have been stupid and... well... now I know I’ve got a horrid day tomorrow.

5.45am. Wake up. Try to call Mr X. He's got a conference call at 6am. No signal. Send email. Call from landline. Someone from CAA fucked up. No signal. Arrgh. He has a conference call at 6am. Where is the call? Where is the access code? What's going on? Nooooooooo.

Mr X's sending emails and going crazy. This is not good. Not good at all. Eventually he gets through. Then I go back to sleep. Up again at 8.15am. Head for Moorpark. 10am off to Zuma. I have to pick up a video that Mr X wants to get to the casting office by lunch time. He tells me this at 9.45am. Great. He's screaming at me. I'm driving in the rain. It's really dark. And a bit scary. LA in the rain is hard work. People are lunatics because they're just not used to it. Rain that is. I'm doing my best but it's really difficult and Mr X's shouting down the phone about where I’m meant to be and all the rest of it. But? What's this? I'm stuck in full-on traffic. Full on. PCH. What do you expect?

On the plus side, Mr B phones about a celebration dinner surprise for his wife Ms J. And … shooting on Friday. Yay! I'm going to a shooting range! I've always wanted to indulge my inner Charlie's Angel.

I get another call... Tamara and Gina waiting for the tape. Racing back as best I can. Woosh. I race into the casting office. It's 12.30pm. Bam. I'm good. But then... Of course. I'd forgotten. Mr X's still in NYC and Tamara and I are due to spend the weekend at his house in Zuma so... guess what? I end up driving all the way back to Zuma again. It takes FOREVER! Still, it's nice that he trusts me and is letting us stay there for the weekend. I can't wait to have a break. I'm exhausted all the time and Tam's not had a break either. We get to pretend that we really live the life and chill at a house in Malibu. Bliss. We can't wait. I'm really grateful to Mr X...

I go to Ralph’s at the Malibu colony. Then.. the house. Tam passes out early. She was making out all night before. At 11pm I’m in bed too. Shattered. Shattered. That was over 150 miles in one day just going back and forth doing nowt. That's the LA way. Hurry up. And wait. Hurry up. And wait...

The one where I'm supercheap

Mother fucker. Someone’s knocked the wing mirror off my car. Some cocking drunken cocking driver has taken the wing mirror off my cocking car. I’ve got my driving test next week. I need my cocking car.

I head to Moorpark but can’t concentrate. … instead it’s a trip to the airport to return the car and go to Super Cheap Cars. On leaving Advantage, thank you full insurance, I call up super cheap cars and ask them to come and pick me up. It’s a moment I think I’ll remember for a while.

I sat outside Advantage, leaning against the wall. Oh for a cigarette. It’s been about forty days now. Maybe 43. Without. Anyway, this car pulls alongside me and this man opens the passenger window.

“Super cheap?”

Er? Not me. I'm not some whore.

"Super cheap?"

Oh. Perhaps he IS talking to me. That's the name of my new car rental company.

Brilliant.

I got in his car.

Naturally, my phone didn’t stop. Mr X needs nine tickets for a Broadway show. A sellout Broadway show at that. I’ve got 13 emails while I’m on the freeway. I’m trying to talk to the company manager, sorting out house seats – I call his writing partner.

“Can this wait til 1pm? I’m just at the airport returning my car…”

I explain about the crash – obviously someone drunk during the night, they probably didn’t even realise they’d clipped my car.

Two minutes later. Mr X phoned, filled with concern about the crash. The co-writer had squealed. He asked if I was okay. I said I was. Nice of him to call, really nice BUT I don’t like talking about personal things with Mr X. I somehow don’t think it’s appropriate. I don’t know why. I’ve heard about other assistants. You’re not meant to have a personal relationship – surely he’s not meant to know about my life and my problems. He just needs his shit sorted. Not thinking about my shit. But, still, he asked if I was okay. Which was nice. But… again, nothing that happens to me is his problem. It’s a weird scenario.

Back in LA. I go home for an hour to do the tickets and send the emails – it’s all go. All go. I’m sorting them all out. Then… off to the library to do some research for Mr X. I’m trying to find books about FBI manhunts. How they do it. The procedural stuff. Everyone’s very helpful. Then. Shit. 2.30pm. I agreed to see a friend at a potential new flat – for him. Near Hollywood and highland.

But first. Pep boys. Mr X’s BMW needs oil. The saga of BMW. I have now phoned them over three days. That’s my life now. Phoning BMW. Finding out if anyone can pick up the car. They can’t. So. It’s me. On my own. I get the oil they recommend and then… off to meet the friend.

As ever, he’s not picking up the phone. I’m waiting in a parking spot. Finally he picks up the phone. I’m off to meet him. At the block. It’s modern. It’s posh. It’s big. I don’t think I can live with him though. But, it’s a nice place. A bit eastern European for my liking – identikit loft conversion places then… shit… I’ve got to meet Mr X’s writing partner – he’s got a script for me to give to Mr X.

I race across LA. The script? Jesus. He made it sound like it was a huge drama and emergency. It’s a script I’ve already sent Mr X when he was in Vegas. Anyway, it’s a good chance to get to know the co-writer. He used to be an assistant writer on a hit TV show. He wrote a script. Mr X liked it… and now he’s off. Doing deals at Paramount and the like. He’s been here five years but it’s finally becoming the Hollywood dream for him. Interesting. But… now I’m late. Again.

Meet up with the Brits at La Cienega Park. There’s a fittie there. Irish. Been here for years. Boxer. Now, god knows. Anyway, we all go out dinner to the King and I. Then, walking back to the car… afterwards. I finally get to talk to Seamus. Slightly smitten. I gave him my number. I never heard from him. Oh well. Nice to meet a hetero. Especially one who’s been in the ring with Evander Holyfield. We chatted for about an hour. And then that was that. Ho hum.

Mr X’s due back tomorrow.

Another day
It’s 9am and I’m in the office. I get to Tam’s office by 11am. Pick up some films for Mr X. Then… then… off to Zuma to deliver it all before he arrives. Ms S is there. She's the housekeeper. We finally meet. I drop the stuff. Then run. I’m looking for oil. I go everywhere. All the garages. No one can help. It’s a nightmare. Eventually, I go to BMW in Santa Monica. I’m a mess. I’m a shrill bitch. I need the oil. No one’s able to help me. I’ve gone a bit mental. I have the eyes of a crazy lady. OIL! OIL! HELP! ME!

We phone up BMW to get the make of his car and the VIM number. I’d got the wrong oil from Pep boys. Argh. I’m a frazzled mess. The older man, Cliff, takes me outside. We go to another BMW model, same as Me X’s and he talks me through how we measure the oil level. It’s intense. I’m horribly grateful to him.

The phone rings. It’s Mr X. He’s shouting. And then he stops. He has to get off the phone. What was that?

An hour later. He calls. He’s shouting down the phone. What the fuck’s going on with his car? Why isn’t his freezer working? Then Ms S gets on the phone. Everyone’s getting antsy about the fact the freezer isn’t working, well, the ice machine, because Ms S hasn’t defrosted it. Not my fault I want to scream (I don't). And then BMW. Why can’t they see his car? What the fuck are they doing? "Not my fault" - I want to scream. I don't.

“When you come over tomorrow, we’re calling BMW and seeing what the fuck’s up with them. This isn’t good enough.”

I’m freaking out. I’ve done nothing wrong but yet it’s all kicking off. I really have been doing my best. Having Ms S AND him shouting at me is all a bit much.

I meet up with a friend and we go to a meeting which is full of gays. I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m upset about being shouted at. I’m upset that I can’t seem to get exactly what he wants. And I’m upset that I’m upset about BMW oil and an ice machine in the fridge. Pathetic. But I’m trying to be professional so I’m horribly affected.

Then… I get home. I forgot that Judy’s got someone coming in tomorrow. I need to move out tomorrow. I need to pack. Sheeeeeeet. I text Mr B. I can move into his tonight. However, I’ll go there tomorrow. I’m a bit of a mess tonight. What with people shouting at me and whatever.

Panic packing and panic texts.