The one where I make my first (of many) court appearances

Ooops. I'm due in court today. So... I get up early. But… of course. Even though it’s on the schedule, even though we talked about it the day before… Mr X’s calling. Demanding. He wants information. But… there’s nothing I can do. I’m due in fucking court. And I don't want to be late.

Anyway. I get to the court. Enter. Everyone looks a bit scary. And they’ve all got big evidence files or something. I’m there. A small red file I’ve done. I brought it myself. I'm in court, this time, for talking on my cell phone. If the cop doesn't show up, I'm off the hook and get my money back. There’s a proper judge. Proper people. And I’m sitting with the crims… because I’m a crim.

This doesn't look right though. This is a proper court. Proper judge. The police are scary in here. So are the people I'm sitting with. I have all my teeth and a full head of hair. I'm one of the few who has both. I'm a bit worried now. Something's not right. I definitely am not feeling this.

Anyway… my name’s not read out. I run out. I’m not listed. Huh? I race down the corridor. Aha. There's the traffic court. Nada. No name. Aren't I due in court? Today? No? Seems not. Seems I got the wrong day. All that for nothing. Doh. Quite how I'm going to get another morning free... I don't know. I'll be back in court in four days. Oh good.

I head over to the studio. And sit. Sit in another meeting. I know. I know. I should be grateful. I’m getting to be part of the movie making process. But… I’m not. The other girl sitting there. Keen as mustard. I'm falling apart. I'm tired all the time. My motivation is slipping away. This is not good. I'm trying really hard to be grateful. Really hard. But I'm dribbling with tiredness. Ulp.

So... Me? I’m off to the get the lunches. As ever… I don’t know what it is about Mr X’s fucking lattes. Spiced Pumpkin Latte. Venti. I end up spilling it all over myself. I’m always covered in the sickly orange goo. And it smells. It’s all over my car. It’s all over my clothes. I’m always covered in the shit.

And… then there’s the lunch runs. Getting food for seven people. And then someone, usually Mr X's brother, always insists on getting an iced tea or something. Does have any idea how difficult it is to balance seven items of food, soup and then… a tea? No. And that’s why Hollywood assistants are made of stern stuff. But me? I’m not made of stern stuff. I’m really suffering. I’m not sure what I’m doing any more.

FOLLOWING DAY....
I’m meeting the girls at Juniors for brunch. Turns out LH knows Mr X. Ish. Everyone knows everyone in this city. Small world. Anyway. The blackberry goes. It’s 12pm now. Mr X wants a table at the Buffalo Club this evening for four people. It’s a national holiday. I phone. You need a credit card deposit and it’s a set menu. AND…. It’s full to capacity. I push them and they say they can squeeze them in. Hooray!

I let Mr X know. He’s not interested. He wants Nobu now. Four people. National holiday. It’s all booked. I let Mr X know. Call back. Tell them it’s Mr X. I did. We’re still on the wait list. The Matre’D’s going to call me back. I wait. I’m not there at the brunch. I'm not present. I’m a mess. I just want him to get his table.

We leave Juniors.

I phone Nobu again. And again. Can they please fit him in? Later that day – I hear back. Mr X has his table. I let him know. He now wants a table outside at the back of the patio. They’re fully booked. There’s a party of 12 there. But they’ll put him at the patio. Brilliant. Hurrah! He goes there a lot so they know him...

Half an hour before the booking’s going to met. Mr X. He can’t make it. They’re going to be late. The table needs to go to 8pm. By this stage I’m at Tamara’s. It’s JS’s party tonight, but I’m dealing with it all. Nobu were lovely. Really lovely. I've not eaten there yet but they were great. I'm so happy they helped me.

I’ve been checking the emails recently. Mr X’s still talking about me going to Pittsburgh. Next week. I mean? What? Can’t he tell me first? He’s not made a decision but I’m fairly sure about mine – I don’t want to move to Pittsburgh. I really don’t. I want to stay. But we need to talk. Maybe I can stay. Maybe he’ll just go. I have no idea what’s going on with my life any more.

I’m off to JS’s. It’s in a dive bar, the place with the racist statue. A strange bunch. An Australian actress turns up but I didn’t talk to her. She wasn’t overly friendly and I couldn’t be bothered. I hate it. Still. At least I forgot about all the stuff I did today. I drove Tam home and got back around 4am. Shattered.

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...