The one where I spend a few days at Mr X's in Zuma

Tam is still sleeping... and I'm up. It's 6.30am. 7am. 7.30am. I decide to walk on the beach as Tamara and I have Mr X's place for a few days. We're taking a break while he's away. It's a beautiful morning. I've not been this happy in a while. Then... I get a call.

Panic. Is it Mr X? Please don't be Mr X. Please. I know it's my job but please.... I glance down at the phone...

It's only Tamara. "Where am I?" She comes down and joins me as we walk along the beach... Bliss. We're the only people on the beach as we enjoy the early morning.

We spend most of the day eating, the pool's freezing but we decide to jump in. I'm so cold I go on the trampoline to warm up. Tamara, meanwhile is in a wet suit in the pool (yes, it is that cold). So while I'm bouncing and she's swimming... in come the pool men. Boing. Boing. I don't know who's more embarrassed. I think it's me.

Turns out the fuse box is needed to fix the pool. We look for it but nothing so I call the landlady who screams at me for disturbing her. "Sort it out, you're the assistant...," is her scream.
Jesus. I don’t know where the fusebox is. How am I meant to know? I was sorting it out. Hence calling her. But... no joy.

Tamara, thank god, can cook and she whips up salmon, cauliflower cheese, cabbage, carrots and sweet potato mash. I decide, post food, to take another walk along the beach. I try running. Whof. Out of shape. Really out of shape. I think the pumpkin pie didn't help my cause.

Early to bed tonight.

THE NEXT DAY

Up. Breakfast. Starbucks. Then... Ms S turns up. Mr X's housekeeper and I get the riot act about Mr X. How he's going to let me down... the full works AND she's highly suspicious that we're both staying there. She doesn't trust me one bit! But she's been with him for years and loves him dearly (everyone who works with him is amazingly loyal - he inspires incredible loyalty from everyone around him) and I'm just some newcomer in his life. Ha. I think. I'll be sticking around lady so you'd better get used to me. That's what I thought anyway...

I escape Zuma for a while and go shooting with Mr B, Patrick and Ms J. Randomly, well, not that random, Jack Osbourne's there too. He's a friend of Mr B's and has a big gun. Shooting was fantastic. I'm a good shot. The kickback is incredible. I mean, you think you know what to expect and bam, it hits you in the chest.

Next time I go, however, I'm wearing a poloneck. The bullets kept jumping out of the gun, I mean, sorry, the SHELLS and flying down my cleavage. Great. Good. I'm covered with burn marks above my chest. Not pleasant at all. But Mr B thinks it's funny. He's not seen this happen before. And he's been shooting a while. Thank god he was so patient.

Then it was time for my first ever target thing and I was goooooood. It felt gooooood. It's loud as hell though. I really enjoyed my first time at a shooting range and then... it was back to Zuma. Tam’s got cabin fever. We need to leave Zuma again - but where to go?

So... we drive to Mr J’s and go to the world's dodgiest bar. It's so the other side of town. Somewhere on Vineland. I don't even know. I just know that it's around 44 miles away. The bar's fun. There's line dancing and the works. We're the only people there under 40, apart from Toni, the waitress. The reason why I call this bar dodgy? It has a racist statue for a start...(see below). Anyway, we play darts. I'm rubbish. Then Mr J and Ms L get stuck into the line dancing... I'm still looking at the statue (see below).


Jeremy joins us and I leave the bar at 1.30am. It's a 44 mile trip back to Zuma. Aaaargh. By 2.30am Tam and Jeremy turned up... 16 Candles on the big screen before passing out on the sofa.

I might be staying at Mr X's but there's no way I'm sleeping in his bed. Wrong. Very wrong.

Tamara goes back to Jesse's the next day and I'm alone in Zuma. A friend turned up. He freaked me out turning up at 10.30pm. He left quite swiftly but I hardly slept that night.... I think Zuma on my own is not a good idea. No matter how idyllic. Still, it's all over soon, Mr X's back tomorrow which means nose + grindstone. Or... do my job. That's what I'm paid to do. This is Hollywood - I have to remember that.

Bliss while it lasted though...

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.