The one where I get stuck at CAA...

No Dublin for Mr X after all. Instead, he’s got a marketing meeting at the studio at 10.30am. He wants me to meet him there again to give him his shoes. Yes. His shoes. He had me take them off his hands to get them polished for the Daddy/Daughter dance in Malibu on Saturday.

My head was all over the place... I had an early walk up Runyon this morning (picture posted). I went over to the studio offices. No Mr X. Nothing. Weird. He's not picking up his phone either. Double weird. No reponse to an email either. Triple weird. I hope he's okay. He always answers something.

Meanwhile, his girlfriend is calling. "Where’s her package?" Fuck. Bloody Fedex. Turns out there was a mechanical fault with the plane. The package couldn’t arrive. I scream at them, fedex, that I’m going to lose my job if it doesn’t arrive by Saturday. They say they’ll do that. But now they’re saying it’s the wrong zipcode. I’d missed off a one. Nightmare. I’m in trouble now. And it's Fedex's fault. Not mine. Not mine at all. I want her to get her present. It's her birthday and Fedex have been horribly unhelpful. Aaaargh.

Anyway… I’m at the studio. Having parked on the street – I get in and… the two boys on reception couldn’t be more friendly. I’ve been accepted. Go me.

So. It’s straight into the conference room where JK – the film’s new line producer is waiting for Mr X to interview ADs. I put my brown bag on the table. The bag contains Mr X's shoes. Yes. The shoes. They are still with me. We chat. He’s lovely. I have to say. Really nice.

In walks the first candidate. Initial impression. Nope. But what do I know?

Anyway, Mr X is messaging me. Finally. He's okay. Phew. But... he's at CAA. JK is looking at me - I can see it in the eyes. "What the fuck is going on?". Mr X is meant to be there. With JK. And, right now, I'm in the room with the ADs instead. Aaaargh. This is fucked up.

And then comes the question. “Where’s Mr X? Will be here soon?” Now. What they don’t know is that there's something going on behind the scenes and Mr X is dealing with it. He's at CAA to have a shakedown. But I can't tell JK that. I can't tell anyone that. Hmmm. This is tricky. Instead, I try and keep to the truth:

"I'm terribly sorry. But... Mr X's locked in another meeting that's run on."

Despite this, the potential AD has not left the room. He's still talking. And the second guy's turned up for his interview. I need AD1 out so I can tell JK what's going on. Thankfully, the studio exec on the film turns up to explain the situation to everyone. It’s now 2.15pm and AD1 still isn’t leaving the room. C'mon. Out out out. We've got things to do. AD2 needs to come in. Finally AD1 leaves and we can get the next one in.

Time for damage limitation however and I’m on my blackberry calling AD agents and the other potential candidates - I'm trying to go ‘abort… abort’. Mr X not being here means coming in for an interview would be a waste of time. Thing is, one of them is nearly at the studio – he just drove in from miles away. Ooops. Still, I managed to reach them all – despite the fact that most of them were already waiting in the lobby. The film’s got a SAG waiver so I guess with the fear surrounding films at the moment, knowing that this one’s going to go ahead means that it’s a job and who doesn’t want a job right now?

I go back into the interview room and this… this is where it got interesting for me. JK’s only been on the film for four days – me? Four months. Time has really flown by. So… suddenly I’m part of the interview process. I’m trying hard to just look official. I manage to do a wicked doodle. And then, I get asked the question - “And what does Mr X think of xxxxxx.” I managed to bluff an answer. After all. I’m a professional. Before you know it, I’m sitting in with the candidates. I send J a message - she'd love this. She'd also know what to do. Still. I'm not doing a bad job. People are looking at me when they give their answers – what the fuck? I have no idea what’s going on. Damage limitation. that's all I'm thinking of right now.

My blackberry’s off again. It’s Mr X. He wants me to meet him with the shoes at CAA. Shitter. I look like crap. At least I’m in all black. No one ever looks truly dreadful in all black… but… it’s been raining. And I’ve been caught in it. I’m not looking my best. It has to be said. I decide to see through the interviews with JK. A chance to just blend in and become a part of the process. He’s also the one hiring and firing at the moment. I ask him if he can find out if I’ve got a job – or not. Am I Pittsburgh bound…? Who the fuck knows right now. He appreciated that I might want to know so he said he’d look into it. Right now, all I need to do is my job and do it to the best of my ability… that’s all I can do.

I’m off to CAA. The famous CAA. I’m approaching CAA. Fuck me it’s BIG.

I park up at the shopping centre and arrive at the agency (still with the shoes in a brown paper bag) and ask for Mr X’s agent's office. I have to wait in the lobby. Everyone there looks important. They’re all waiting… And… eventually… down comes R. I finally get to meet Mr X’s agents's asst. Or… xxxxxxxxxasst@caa.com. She’s never had a name. Just that. We go up to the office. It’s a corner office. Everyone’s very busy. Very groomed. I’m ushered in and there’s Mr X.

He’s still on the phone. I give him the shoes. He nods. He’s still on the phone to the studio. He’s been on with them for about three hours now. I’m told to sit. And wait. And I get to meet The agent. But he’s on the phone. Everyone’s very busy. Mr X gets up. “I’m going to xxxx’s office.” And he leaves me there. Alone. I feel like a twat. A twat with a pair of polished black shoes. It’s now that I see the agency system at work.

“Get me xxxxxx [important big Hollywood name] on one.” – agent

“he’s in casting.” – agent assist

“get him” – agent

There’s a pause.

We’re emailing while the agent is talking to his assistant.

“Shit. It’s non-stop isn’t it,” I write to the assistant.

“Yep. I’m sure it’s the same with you,” replies assistant.

I have no idea what to write now. She's busy. So busy. So I stop writing. He looks like he might throw a hissy fit. I think she's joking.

Meawhile the 'banter' in the office is still going:

“Get me xxxx xxxx’s [a-list actor] number,” Agent.

“xxxxxx [big name] on one,” Assistant.

“I’m too busy. Get me xxxxxxx. I’m never going to get through this fucking list tonight,” Agent
.
“xxxxxx [bigger name] on one,” Assistant.

“Where’s Xxxxxx’s [A-list actor] number? Someone’s got it. Ask around. Put it out there….” Agent

And then he picks up the phone.

“Hey,” he says to me as I’m trying to sink into the chair opposite him as I wait for Mr X. Trying to be part of the furniture. I'm just sitting in his office. Trying to blend.

“Yeah…” I says nonchalantly.

“You want some candy?” Agent.

Huh? The man’s offering me candy. I don’t eat sugar. But I don’t want to turn down his candy. I won’t have the candy. But I like candy. I want the candy. This could be a moment to bond. I’ll take the candy. Yes. Maybe this is our moment.

“It’s the best you’ve ever had,” agent.

I slope up to his desk. What is this? What is going on? Are we friends now?

“Go on. Have both. Take it. Take it,” Agent says.

He is the typical agent. You want him in your court. He’s better than Ari Gold in Entourage because he’s real. He’s a proper proper agent. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I’m at the desk noshing on his candy. I can’t stop now. I put it down. He’s telling me to take it. I tell him to stop pushing his candy on me. He needs some. I tell him to take his candy. This is getting weird now. I’m in an office discussing candy and sugar while Mr X is fighting for his film in another room.

A man comes into the room. He introduces himself. I just tell him I’m Noam. He thinks I’m important and then the agent tells him I’m Mr X’s assistant. I don’t know who he is. I email the assistant to try and find out who he is. Anyway, we start discussing Gerry Butler’s shagability. I don’t know if this is appropriate or not as I don’t know who he is. Anyway. We have some fun. I like him. He’s funny. I don’t know if he’s important or not. All I know is that we’ve delayed his appointment with the agent for three hours as Mr X’s been holed up at CAA.

Mr X’s back. He’s had enough – he wants to leave. His agent wants answers. Mr X’s spent though so we leave. As we go some wannabe shark of an agent comes over. He’s all over Mr X. Tedious. I’m still trotting behind. Eventually we leave. I’m out of CAA. Mr X has managed to get someone to look after his car right outside the door. It's pouring. Mr X drives me to my car. He wishes me a nice weekend – he’s off to spend time with his daughter and I’m off to get ready for the Grammy party I’m going to tonight at the Paramount lot.

9pm. I’m dressed. I’m ready. I’m knackered and I’m going to go to a party on my own. Then.. Tamara rings. A friend’s in town and they’re meeting up with A.N. Other UK actor at Firefly for a night out. Oh well. I wish I could go but…

I’m driving in the rain. It’s kinda scary and then I get the call from Mr X. It’s 9.30pm. He’s had an accident on the PCH. A boulder hit his car and it spun. He's okay, thankfully, but the car is not. He wants me to drive to Zuma tomorrow for 10am to take him to his hire car. Oh poo. That means an early night tonight rather than enjoy the Grammy party. I suck at this job. I'm thinking about me. I don't want to drive 50 miles to his place to drive him five miles up the road. Oh well. I have to do this. And hire his car. And... do it with a smile.

I arrive at the Paramount lot. I’m on my own at a party. It’s kind of weird. I’m dressed up. For me. A dress. Make up. Fresh hair. And I’m emailing xxxxx from the studio that invited me. She’s by the cheese. I’m by the cheese. Wrong cheese. There are two cheese tables. I’m at the better one. She’s English and friendly. So we hang out. Before you know it I bump into someone I know. JVDF. A friend of E’s. He’s with someone who worked at Dazed in London. So she knows some of my former Time Out and City friends. Small world… small world. And I don’t look like a loser. See? I know people.

By midnight, however… I’m bored. I don’t know enough people to make this worthwhile really. I’m tired and bored. I got kudos points for being spotted saying hello to Adam (aka DJ AM). I didn’t realise he was DJ AM. I don’t know who that is but I know that he’s Adam. Nice guy. He knows Nico. Of course. Who doesn't?

I leave. It’s 12.15am. And who’s arriving? Nico. He’s greeting everyone. Like a king among minions. I'm done. I’m off. That’s it. And I’ve got to drive to Malibu in the morning.

2am. I’m online. I’m looking at local car hire places in Malibu. I’m compiling a list. A long list. Which I’m emailing to Mr X: “Please look at his before I arrive tomorrow so I can book it while driving over to yours in the morning.”

I've got to get up in six hours. Ew. This is not going to be pretty.

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 Noam goes to Paramount

I’m up at 3am again. Panicking.

By 7.30am I started to drive over to Moorpark. Beep. Beep. The blackberry… can I go over to the Paramount lot and meet Mr X to sort out his Bluetooth in his car… So I headed to Lulu’s café, ordered an omelette and rang my mother to catch up with her. I was excited about going to Paramount. I emailed Xxxxxx, the assistant at Paramount, to put me on the list. A studio. Yay. I got there half an hour early. I’m not on the list. Eek. This is not good. The Paramount assistant isn't there either. This is not good.

Then. Mr X's co-writer on this project, turns up… he’s not on the list either. Great. I go into power mode. Sorted. Mr X, thankfully, is running late, which gives me a chance to make sure everything's okay for his arrival. You can't fuck up in Hollywood. You just can't. Even if it's not your fault it's your fault - that's the law. The law in Hollywood anyway.

After I got in, I decided to take a few pictures. As you do. Before I headed to the office where Mr X was having his meeting. The assistant was frosty. She removed me from the reception area as I looked untidy. I didn't look so bad. But... her boss didn't know who I was thus I presented a problem. They put me in a side room... out of sight so out of mind. Though I did start chatting to an intern, who was photocopying in the room next to me. Then. Mr X arrived, he graciously introduced me to Mr Paramount with a really generous intro before giving me the keys to his car and I was off...

While on the lot I bumped into the office intern. He had a cart. A cart! Like a golf buggy so he drove me around. I loved it! Couldn’t remember his name and felt bad when he said ‘bye Noam’ after he dropped me off. He’ll go far. I, on the other hand? God knows.

I fixed the car - which I was really proud of. I mean. Bluetooth. Cars. Phones. Technology. Seriously. This wasn't easy stuff. I was configuring things on a car that didn't even need a key to start it. I don't mean to sound like a plum, but, honestly, this kind of thing is usually beyond me. I returned the key to the uppity assistant and walked back round the lot. It wasn't easy. I have to say.

After leaving the lot, grudgingly, I raced back to Culver City to the office to sort out more stuff. Meetings, double checking meetings but the mood outside. It was one of … weirdness.

I'm writing this about November... and... back in November in LA it was voting day. One of the most historic days, probably, of the Century so far in America... People kept coming up to me on the street going ‘have you voted… it’s close… you gotta vote…’ I kept saying ‘but I’m English’.

The most political things I’ve ever done in my life are as follows a) voted in the UK elections in some of the most Tory boroughs ever. Even though what's the point? b) dragged on marches from ages 7-12 to go to the Soviet embassies to protest about them not letting Jews out of the country: ‘one two three four, open up the iron door. Five six seven eight let the people emigrate’. C) and most recently? When seeing gays holding up their ‘honk if you’re against prop eight’ signs… I’ve honked. I felt wonderfully involved. Look at me. I’m in politics now. I honked my horn. That’s it. So… to have this election fever? I couldn’t get involved. I feel bad. But I’ve not been here long enough. It's been two weeks. If that. Brown vs Cameron. That I get. That I know. This? I know NOTHING. Sorry. I feel horribly ignorant. I'm too wrapped in my own LA bubble right now that I don't even know where I am...

I went to Larchmont to meet Justin and his girlfriend. Kirsten. She wants me to co-write her book. Money up front. Easy prospect. I’m tempted. Nice to see Justin again, we’ve been playing scrabulous and word scraper now on a daily basis since I met him last March. This was probably the second or third time we’ve met, first time away from others, but having spent months im’ing I feel I know him. And he’s trying to give me a friendly kick up the arse with my career. He also offered me work as a script writer on a reality show. All good. Amazing even.

I raced back across Hollywood as I had a meeting at 8pm. And then, a friend found me and tried to drag me to the Abbey where he was meeting his friend Ivan. It was all go in the Abbey. Big gay bar. Lots of rainbow flags. Squealing. Excitement. Cheers. I was too tired.

Tam rang. Her party was a bit shit. She didn’t know anyone so was heading up to her friend Ms L’s. I joined her. Scraped up the car in the car park, ouch, and headed up into the hills to visit Lena, her parents, a hetero or two, and some gays. As it was all, mainly, Brits, it was quite a relief. Love Ms L’s parents. I spoke to John, her dad, about Stan Ternant and Peter Jackson… He’s from Huddersfield. I’ve been there. Seen the Terriers. That's Huddersfield FC. Played with the dogs and realised, I’m shattered. Really shattered and I’ve got to drive home. People are honking their horns all over West Hollywood. I’m falling asleep at the wheel.

Wednesday November 5th

Bonfire night. No fireworks or Guys in LA. They don’t have a clue. I love Bonfire Night. Head up to Moor Park at 9am and see Dan O’Meara. A friend. Nice to see him, we talk about his film, his prospects, his life and a bit of my life, my prospects and the world at large. A text from JFS, he’s moving back to the UK next week but we’re meeting for coffee in Los Feliz on Friday. It’ll be nice to see someone from home and he’s doing so well out here. Still shattered.

While talking to Dan, my crackberry goes off. ‘Sorry the meeting’s cancelled today, are we meeting next Monday at 11am?’ WTF? I don’t know the name but I know the meeting. It starts in 50 minutes and Mr X will already be on the road. I call ‘young jim’ – that’s seriously his name.
Oops. He made a mistake. Wanker. Utter wanker. I call someone else to double check, after all, I’d confirmed this meeting the day before. ‘He’s new. I’m sorry. He didn’t know’. Two minutes later. ‘beep beep’. He’s apologising. Cross communication. I’ll fucking say. I was about to get the chop there for his error.

Talking to Dan again when ‘ring ring’… It’s Mr X. He wants to know who someone is. Thank god for the Crackberry. I give a name and company. Dan’s impressed. I’ve been here two weeks and I’m multitasking with a crackberry sounding all efficient. It’s frightening though, the fear of not wanted to fuck up. I’m back in ‘Devil Wears Prada’ fears.

Off to the office again. Culver City awaits. My back, however, is slipping away. Thank fuck for Liz and Lisa’s birthday present. I book a massage tomorrow. Can’t wait. Cannot wait.

And then, the madness, the crackberry. Meetings. Confirmations. Texting someone only known as by a nickname who doesn't have an email address - just a phone.

Then… something nice. Mr X asks me about a singer. I check him out. I’m asked my opinion. We agree. He tells me his idea. I agree. It could work. I send Mr X the links to the singer’s myspace page and videos. Mr X likes him. I like him. Mr X asks me to set up a meeting with him.

I feel so powerful. Look at me. I google, use imdbpro.com and sure enough, within ten minutes I’m Mr X's right hand woman setting up a meeting. I love these bits of the job. Where I feel I might be changing someone’s life. Or setting up some kind of deal. I really enjoy it. It just seems exciting.

Then I make the call. They tell me they’ll return.

I send an email:

Hi xxxxxx,

Re the message I left earlier this afternoon, I'm writing on behalf of director Mr X (insert names of film here).

"Mr X would like to set up a meeting with yourself and your client xxxxxx to discuss an idea for a film project that would involve xxxxx and his music.

Please contact me on xxx xxx xxxx so we can put something together."

Two minutes later. It’s the man.

Ten minutes later. The man and I are friends. The man and Mr X are meeting up in Santa Monica before his big studio meeting. And I feel I rock. I feel like I’m at the beginning of a project that might run. And that’s what I came here for. And that’s why I’m enjoying my job. Today.

I leave the office and head over to Western and Lemon Grove to meet Jolyon. He’s a friend of rock Dave – who painted my flat in London and redid my bathrooms. Anyway, Jolyon’s a DJ.

I got lost in Lemon Grove. I went up the wrong street. Apparently I’m in some kind of crack alley but I didn’t know, so ended up asking some crack-smoking local for directions. He has no idea where he is. Let alone me. I call Jolyon for the fifth time in ten minutes.

I’m on the wrong side of Western. The wrong Lemon Grove. The wrong everything.

We eventually head off to the 101 café. And then, by 10pm, he has to leave, he’s working at midnight doing his DJ thing and, meanwhile, I’m shattered. Still, nice to meet someone new.

Shattered I head off to bed.

The one where I race to Zuma...

Piss. The pilot light man’s coming to the house in Zuma. I’ve got a meeting at 9am beforehand. And then… well… drive like the wind. I get there. The gas man’s there. So are Mr X's friends. The ‘How you doin?’ continues. They invite me to the cinema with them. I’m tempted. But I think it’s inappropriate.

One of them's in the pool. ‘Hey sweetie, can you check the heating’s on?’ I plod over and glance over into the pool. I think... yep... he’s stark bollock naked. I’m not complaining. But.... But. You know. Er. Well. I keep it together. “It’s on” I reply as I slink away back inside.

The sagas are ongoing... and meetings need to be finalised: the Paramount pitch and the meeting about the music and the meeting about the publicity. Meanwhile.. there’s a piece in Variety about Mr X and Mr A-Lister doing a project together. It’s not happening until next year. No one reads that and instead the phones in the production office are going a bit crazy – people offering themselves up for work. Bog off. But I can’t say that. It’s all mental here. People are desperate and I realise how lucky I am to have a job within the industry with a guy who, thus far, isn’t a dick.

Mr X's friends leave and I decide to go for a dip. Do I dare a skinny dip? I do. But it’s fucking cold so it was more a ‘oooh oooh oooh – too cold’ up to my waist. I dry off and ring Tam and boast about being in the pool while she's in the office.

There's a trampoline in the garden too. I decide to jump and see if I can spot Pierce Brosnan next door. I don't. But the trampoline's looking a bit scared. And fragile. I don't want to destroy it. Eeeeek. Now that would be a humiliating reason to get fired.

I leave Zuma. And it’s back to the production office. Picking up some sushi for Ms J, who works here. The blackberry’s off again. I’m having fun with the head of press for one of the major studios. It’s all good banter. And she appears to have a sense of humour.

Then, it’s more emails between me and the universe about Mr X’s film – I know assistants are busy but people aren’t giving me all the information I need so it’s weird. I'm chasing my tail the entire time.

Finally, the day’s over. Tam and I do Coreyoke. Well. Tam watched. Coreyoke – started by Corey Haim and Corey Feldman. They weren’t there tonight. But the band dress up as the Corey’s and you sing with a live band. ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’. That’s what I did. But the band is loud. I’m drowned out.

Tam tries to eyefuck the doorman. The bar’s called Happy Endings. I’m not sure if we’re in a gay bar or not. The boys are young. And hot. But young.

It’s been over two weeks without a cigarette. I’m sorely tempted. I leave for constant fag breaks with Tam. Just breathing in the smoke. I miss them. I do.

11.30pm. Home.

12.30am. Ping. Mr X’s in Rome still. Just getting back from the hotel. The email’s begin again. Ping. Ping. Ping. Eventually he tells me to go to bed. I don’t want to tell him I’m in the bath.

The following day

Weird day. More emails. More assistants to schmooze.

Then... it's off to one of the major studios to get myself set up with the financial team. I drive into their carpark. It's immense. Everything's big here. It's all about the industry. I’m still not sure how legal I am… I have a job now and they’re paying me directly as it’s linked to the film. I’m introduced to the team. I sort out money. It’s something I really need.

I’ve got mountains of press to print out. The printer’s weird. Everything’s weird. All the press is bleeding off the page. There’s a lot of shit. I miss home today. But... I love driving around still. I’m gaining weight though. That whole giving up smoking thing is bringing on the weight and I thought I’d lose a few pounds. I’m not. Grrrr. Gotta get that gut under control.

No sign, again, of celebrity sightings on the streets. Nada. I shouted at Pierce Brosnan’s dog yesterday though. Does that count? Otherwise, that’s it.

I went to meet a friend at this awful place. I hated it. We arranged to have dinner at Mel’s 24 hour diner. I got there. HE wasn’t there. I ordered. And phoned him. He was at the other diner. I ate alone and never heard from him again. I keep phoning. Nothing. My food arrives. Nothing. Turns out he was stopped by the police for a faulty breaklight on his way to meet me. I eat alone. A couple opposite me are face fucking. I leave.

Another day down in H-Wood.

The one where I meet Mr X for the first time

Day two - it brought more of the same. The paramount pitch, I need a credit card on his account so I had to order that, and the one line emails were flying in from Mr X. Book tickets for this, email the costumer designer from that, call this guy at CAA and give them my apologies that I can't make the screening, set up a meeting in early November with this cinematographer, set up a meeting with that guy at CAA and will my blackberry work in Europe? It's exciting. Really exciting. I'm in LA. I'm living the dream. This is why I'd moved over...

All this and I'd STILL not met him. BUT I knew his social security number, date of birth, daughter's birthday and all the ins and outs of his relationships. I mean everything. These are things I needed to know. I'm in charge of his schedule, his life... everything.

I headed off to get my nails done. They looked like shit. No one has bad nails here. No one. I'm there being buffed when I see this woman having hers done. I know her. I know I do. Fuck me if it isn't Dawn Porter, who I met at one of Liz's birthdays two years ago. She lives here now. We exchanged numbers as she lives round the corner from me. Small world.

3pm. I'm off to his production office to meet one of his producers. Three hours (and one parking ticket later) I'm more filled in. Knackered. But more filled in.

6pm. I've got fifteen minutes to meet Tamara and fly up to the Arclight to see a screening of Mr X's - we're due to meet. I'm sort of excited but I find it weird. Ms V had put the fear of god into me. Ms J, who worked for his brother, had reassured me. But I realised. This is real life. I'm a walking Entourage episode. I really am.

At the cinema, and Tam's there with Gina and friends.

No tickets for Tam and co though. God knows where they were. Warners were meant to leave them for them and we had five minutes... I came into my own. I got my tickets and demanded to see the event co-ordinator of the screening. "Hi. I'm Mr X's PA. I've got five people from Warner's who need walking through. Their tickets aren't there and the event's due to start. I need them in now." and then did the obligatory ‘help me help me’ look. It worked. I felt like a rockstar as we all walked through. I really did.

The film's long. And then there was a Q&A. I'm meeting my boss while he's doing a Q&A. Weird. I've been working for him for two days and I've still not met him. We had to wait. And wait. And wait.

Ms V was there. I felt slightly awkward. So I waited outside the cinema with the groupies and then there he was. Eventually I met him. My boss.

“Hi”… “I recognise that voice.” As well he bloody should as we’d been emailing and talking for a while now… So. I took out my notepad. I’m on my game. Lots of nodding, eye contact and I’m going to Zuma tomorrow to meet him properly. There are people listening. He’s cornered. I introduce myself to some people there. They’re snotty. Then I say I’m Mr X’s PA. Then they’re friendly. Wankers. There’s only so much of that I can take.

We drive back to Tam’s office, where we’d left the car. Tam’s boss and the woman who casts all of Mr X’s films, is still in the office. We chat. Her dog is mental, but lovely, racing around while we dissect life.

Tired. I go home. I've finally met Mr X and we start emailing at midnight through to 2am sorting out more stuff before our meeting tomorrow.

SATURDAY - off to Mr X's house

He lives in butt. fuck. nowhere. But next to Pierce Brosnan and five mins walk from Zuma Beach. But first? It's off to Beverley Hills, Rodeo Drive as it happens, to pick up his watch. I felt like a rockstar again, swinging my posh bag, filled with a watch that costs more than most of my possession in the US rolled together. Oh well.

I got lost on the way. It was SO far. SO far. I thought it couldn't be that far. It was. I drove fast. Very fast. But... I don't want to make this trip on a regular basis.

I got to the home. It has a pool. It's nice. But it's a long way from home.

It's hard to take someone seriously when their daughter has tied him up and put a purple tiara on his head. I get the lowdown on team Mr X. It's a lot to take in. Everyone seems very important. And I've not heard of any of them. But they're loyal. They love him. In fact, everyone I meet loves him. He's a creative genius - what's not to love?

I'm given more to do - sort out the blue tooth in his BMW, more gardening questions, the bin's gone walkabout. The housekeeper's not picking up the phone and I don't know where anything is. Mr X's gone off to High School Musical with his daughter (to collect tickets I really hope I bought for him!). Oh yes and download a book onto his i-pod. Now that took nearly an hour alone.

It's a long drive back. Long. And I've got two parties tonight. At least.

I met up with a friend. He took me to the gayest party I've ever been to. 40 men. And me. I'd made a vow in LA. No. More. Poufs. And what happens? I'm thrown into a party with gays. It had valet parking at the house. Posh. And the staff working it are from 'Adonis' catering. So I'm watching old gayers slavering over the food and the help. There was possibly one other woman but she looked so skinny she doesn't really count. She looked ill. They all produced or wrote gay films. Apart from one guy, who was editor of a magazine. Him I liked. He had a good tasche. But being around all the gays was slightly - what's the fucking point in this? So we went to my friend Nico's party. Slightly cunt soup. Slightly fun. The women here need to eat. One English skinny Lady was, incidentally, snotty unfriendly bag. Didn't like her at all. Why my friend bothered to give her a compliment I don't know. She's unpleasant. Horribly unpleasant. The party was Hollywood esque and just how these people could walk away afterwards and drive their cars? No idea. The booze consumption was immense.

I drove home through the mist and passed out into bed.

SUNDAY - no rest for the wicked.

Went to the beach with Eileen but ended up on the blackberry sorting stuff out. Silly stuff. Stuff not even worth mentioning anymore because you get the idea. I hope. It's a mixture of the mundane and the self important.

Saw the Changeling with Tam and started actually looking at my blackberry's contacts.

I have Johnny Depp's email. Whoop whoop! I’m excited.

There's an upside to everything I guess.

The one where I have the Handover

Bless Ms V. She's lovely. Terribly sweet. And no idea why she got fired. Especially for a girl with no background in assistant work and a girl who's never met her boss. She gave me the run down. She made him sound terrifying. "When downloading stuff for his i-pod, you make a playlist and always miss out 'the' like 'rolling stones', not 'the rolling stones'... always get his air miles credited... always send him a schedule of his life twice a day... order him the same driver when he needs a car... he hates sitting in a back row on a plane... don't mention the dead dog (too late)... log every call... log every number... remember everything... call his publicity team.... call his agent... his agent's assistant... pick up his watch.... sort out his dish washer... and never gossip with his ex-wife. Ever." And so the list went on. She handed me a blackberry, a pile of receipts, a book of contacts and gave me a whistful smile of regret. And I felt bad.

After I drove her home and waved her goodbye, it all kicked off.

I had the phone. I had the power. Fuck.

And there was no charger for the blackberry. Fuck.

Where's the Scott Speedman DVD? Where can Warner's send a package to Mr X? Who's going to turn the pilot light on at Mr X's place (SoCal Gas as it happens... but what do I know of Californian gas companies)? What time's the pitch with the head of Paramount? Who's going to be there? What's available? Check with the co-writer... Check with Mr X... There's a fight co-ordinator in NYC. When's Mr X there for a meeting? Van Morrison tickets for the Hollywood bowl - he wants to go. I needed to get tickets. Oh and his Vacheron $10k watch. That needed picking up. A gift from his girlfriend (yet to meet). Fuck and Sundance needed some info from him. Where's the receipt for the dishwasher that was fixed? The landscape gardener needs to clear up, when's he coming? Who's fixing the screen door at the house? And then he's working across five or six projects, all of which are being co-written and I have to deal with who's who and what's what.

And my phone was dying.

And I heard that QPR had just sacked the manager. I barely flinched. I was busy finding out which project a Hollywood A-lister's working on with Mr X. Can I meet the A-Lister? I hope so.

I did it all. And I'm still not officially on staff. And... I've still not met my boss. We've been emailing. I collapsed into bed on Thursday night.