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 pigeons shit. Pigeons die. This is London

I’m shattered. Utterly shattered. THIS is the email I sent the estate agent back in London… one of many.

“I am actually rather distressed and stressed out by this tenant's email. He seems overly demanding. I can't keep getting pushed around like this and I feel bullied. I don't want to get emails about dead pigeons while I'm over here. I really don't. This is London. These things happen. Pigeons shit. Pigeons die. This is London. These things happen. I lived there for ten years and was happy. If there's a dead pigeon, get a bin bag and another bin bag, pick it up and dispose of it. I can't remove pigeons from here. It's just life. I feel really backed into a corner. Maybe, if they hate the flat so much they should move out? It's really really stressful. I'm over here and I can't do anything about dead pigeons. I can't do anything about the heating and the gas - all of which was absolutely fine when I left the place. Have they tried looking at the pilot light?”

This is only a brief extract. I think I might call my next book ‘Pigeons shit. Pigeons Die. This is London.’

The crackberry’s not stopped. I meet a lovely girl called Aandrea (correct spelling, yes, this is LA) and an English bloke. He’s been here two years. I look familiar to him. He looks familiar to me. I really hope I’ve not slept with him but wouldn’t be embarrassed if I had. He’s quite nice in a Morten Harket kind of way. I liked Morten. And Mags. But not Pal. Anyway. We exchange numbers too. I'll never call him. He'll never call me.

I drive over to the office in Culver City. I have to pull over twice. Mr X’s got info he needs to have. And we’re still sorting out the Paramount pitch tomorrow. Meetings meetings. Creditation. Sorting out who’s there. All the dramas. Not his. But everyone else's

Then there’s a meeting at the major studio on Wednesday. It’s all go. Exciting. But I need to be on top of it all. And the parent/teacher conference was moved a day. Shit. I have to move another meeting.

Then there’s a DOP who wants to meet Mr X. I set up an appointment. Then I cancel an appointment. The film is precarious right now. I don’t know what’s going on with it. Neither does Mr X. He’s being very Zen. I’m yet to see him flip out. It's impressive actually. I'd be freaking out by now

Emails flying. Two actors are due to have a readthrough of Mr X’s next project this week. Which pages? When is Mr X free? When are they free? And can I sit on one of the actor’s lap?

More emails flying. More meetings and… the killer blow at 12pm. I have to arrange Mr X and his daughter's flights to NYC at short notice. And Mr X wants to use his airmiles. At this short notice, it might be nigh on impossible but I'm going to my best.

This is a job that takes, literally, until 4.30pm. No breaks. Nothing.

I find 1st class with Virgin America. $5k in total. Not good enough. I’m still not sure why he wants to go first class. I’ve found it for a TENTH of that with another airline in coach. But now. So… now I’ve got to email his friend in publicity to see if she can help. She does. She's great. I like her. But it’s still going to cost $4k at least for the two them to travel in first. What more can I do? You either pay or you don’t.

Fuck.

I know he’s not happy but I was clear. I have spent five hours on this. I have been calling every agency. Using every airmile I can. This is it. He’s a reasonable man. He knows I’m not trying to dick him about.

And by 6pm I’m off to meet Mr B. I get to Beverly Glenn and Mulholland and miss the turn. My fucking GPS is not on its game. We bump into Mr Beverly Hills 90210 and head off.

Home by 11pm. Ring Tam on the way (and no handsfree! Oops) and vent about the tenants in Warwick Road.

Bed awaits.

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.

The one where I don't go to a frat party

I had an appointment in the morning with a Polish waxing lady. It was painful. Horribly painful. ‘You’re too tense… it’ll hurt more…’ and it bloody did. Aargh.

Then… off to Tam’s place. She’s moving out of her friend’s place. A sad day. We’re packing up, I put all the stuff in the car and say goodbye to the hot tub and the tivo I’d yet to take advantage of…

Lunch at Marmalade, where Tam's mate works. Amazing food. And then… Tam's new place but we stopped off in Target. Sheets to buy. Amazingly cheap. I’ve always wanted to furnish a place in the US or have an excuse to spend money in household stores in America and now I can! Even though I’ve no money but you get the drift. American stores just hold a fascination for me. Perhaps because the pound was always stronger than the dollar (not the case now, boo hoo) but also because their stuff seems more innovative. Leave me in Bed Bath and Beyond and that's me out for hours just looking at the utensils.

By now… it’s 3.50pm. I’m due at Zuma at 5pm. All 36 miles away from where we are so I head off to see what Mr X’s got in store.

It’s grim weather (for LA). Slightly gray skies, rain and people are so affected. Compared to home it’s nothing. Nothing. But… tomorrow’s BBQ at Matthew Rhys’s has been cancelled due to the weather. A shame. I wanted to meet the man behind the legend. I’ve heard he’s just incredibly sexy in the flesh, just amazing. I wanted to see for myself. Still, I have to try and remember that I’m not on holiday. I live here. I’ve got time to meet the people I’m meant to be meeting.

4.30pm. I’m at Mr X’s. No sign of him. One of his buff mates is there (yay) but he’s neck deep in ‘Michael Collins’ (boo). No sign of Mr X. 5.30pm. Mr X arrives… I’m curious, why pull me out here on a Saturday? I load some music onto his blackberry for him, go through a few emails, pick up some big wig agent’s glasses (they’ll send a messenger for them), put pictures from his blackberry onto his computer and deliver a script his brother wanted him to read. Oh.... the agent's glasses. BIG drama. I've been getting daily phonecalls from the agent's assistant. Panicking. He has to have those glasses. Has to. And I know that every day the big shot agent has been going to the assistant: "If you don't get my glasses back you're fired". That's how it works. A panic industry. Induce fear. Fear gets people motivated. Apparently. Survival of the fittest and the thickest skin. However, it just makes me fuck up. Anyway. I've got the glasses. Some agent's assistant at CAA is about to fall in love with me.

8.15pm. I’ve been circling around the Ventura/Sherman Oaks area for 20 minutes trying to find Tam’s house. The fucking GPS has sent me to the wrong place. There are three Allott Avenues it seems. I’m going crazy. I arrive and we’re getting ready to go out. But her friend is late.

There are three parties tonight. A) One in Woodland Hills (back in the direction of Zuma). Sounds like a big frat party, but fun. Tam’s outfit looks incredible. Bodice and all. But the party's back another 15 miles. We'd need to leave now. B) Chris Hart’s assistant. This poor cow doesn’t even have a name. She’s (or even he) is just known as Chris Hart’s assistant. He’s an agent at CAA. About 300 people have been invited. It’s in Brentwood. I feel bad going to a party of someone who doesn’t even have a name. However. That's what people do. I don't even want to know Chris Hart... but this party is meant to be big. Deep down, by now, I don't really care. C) Benicio Del Toro’s party. Eileen sent a text, they’re going to his party. I’ve been told he has a surprisingly small penis. I don’t know why this upsets me. But it does. This is stuff I shouldn't know. And... I've not seen it so perhaps it's just one of those urban myths. I hope so. It would be nice to find out... So. These are the choices. Normal. Hollywood wank or Hollywood wankee.

It’s not 10pm. Amy’s really late. I’m really shattered. Amy turns up in her cutesy airhostess outfit, Tam’s wearing a corset and a tutu and I’m in jeans and a t-shirt. I decide to go home. I just can’t be bothered anymore. Hollywood will be there another day. I'm exhausted. I know that in Hollywood, 10pm is not late to head to a party… but it is these days for me. I get tired. I like getting up in the morning and looking at the sun.

10.30pm. Andy NL sends a text. He’s in a bar, firefly, on Ventura. Too late. I’m already on the 101 coming up to Highland. 10.33pm. Eileen’s at the Benicio party. It’s at the Social. I don’t even know where that is. I remember Tam telling me it’s a bit cunt soupy. I point out I’m in jeans and a t-shirt. Eileen recommends going home to change but… I know… the moment I get in… that’s it. I’m on the bed. And sure enough it proved to be.

I’m home. I’m looking after myself. I know the psychic (yes I saw a psychic, she told me that LA was the place for me and the next day I got the job off from Mr X so it all looked like it was meant to be) told me to ‘get out there’ to meet my husband but not tonight.

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 officially start

So. Day one - that I officially start my job anyway. It’s weird. I’m here. I've been here five days. I'm finding my feet. Hitting the ground running. I have blisters. Literally. I need to by some trainers. And flip flops.

I’ve met my boss once and right now he’s in Rome. So, I'm here. Answering the phone, making appointments, trying to get a company credit card (bring it on) and working out what my job is.

It appears to be spending time setting up meetings and then dealing with the incompetence of others – can’t people tell me from the fucking off just WHO is going to be at these meetings, and exactly WHERE they’re going to be. It’s hardly rocket science. But people are stupid. Fick. Proper fick. But they like my accent, so that's cool.

The main agency that everyone bows down to is CAA. I’m told they have their own zipcode they’re so flash. Well. I call them on a daily basis. I have no idea who’s who, what’s going on, who the ‘players’ are… apparently I need to learn that. I’m finding it all a joke. It’s quiet today. The film opened and got beaten by Beverly Hills Chihuahua. So. One minute, literally, you’re the hot stuff in Hollywood and the next minute everyone’s jumping on the ‘let’s slate the film’ bandwagon. Still, he’s in Rome right now doing press so he doesn’t have to see it. I feel bad though, like the kiss of death. it was all going so well before I arrived?! Hopefully it'll pick up.

My computer has a virus. It’s horribly sick. I got it from Tam. So… I head to Tam's office and wait two hours while it’s repaired with the virus checker. The blackberry’s peeping all the while. Meanwhile, they’re doing their shit – Tam and I watch the last episode of Plus One. I miss home a lot now. Ingrid was fab and I even laughed out loud in places. I’m terribly proud of my friends. They’ve done a good job.

The other thing about America is the whole banking system. I have no 'credit history' so getting credit cards and banking stuff is hard. Everything's much harder than I thought. I order a credit card. They’ll only give me $300 credit. RUBBISH. And that's because I have no credit history here. Still. Jesus. $300?!? I then go to the post office. These are things I just don't know how to do over here, I feel like a retard.

I’m due at Zuma at 4pm to meet the landlord of Mr X’s house. Zuma is not nearby. Zuma is about 33 miles away. I know. That's nothing in England. NOTHING. But here? It's a lifetime away.

Zuma is nice. Stunning. But my dangerous speedy driving will get me into trouble one of these days. I try star spotting while in the car – especially at lights. I don’t think I’ve really seen anyone of note. I saw more people on Old Compton Street then I do here.

Anyway… I get to the house early. 3pm. There’s someone in the house. Stuff everywhere. Guy stuff. Then… these two ripped men appear out of nowhere. Mr X’s mates from the East Coast. Big. Buff. And proper ‘how you doin’ mentality. They’ve just come off the beach and, well it’s been a while, I probably gawped a bit. Okay. A lot. They looked buff and healthy. You don't get men like that in Shepherds Bush.

We chat. Or perhaps they chat and I flirt. I don’t know. Perhaps I flirted a lot.

The housekeeper turned up and showed me the pilot light, the broiler, the heater, the chimney and the ice machine. The things I’m learning. This is Hollywood life. She goes and I realise I’m fucked getting home. Leave now and I’ll be stuck in traffic for three hours so I’ve got to stay, well, I don’t have to, I choose to.

The boys – Frankie and Jimmy (of course) – are busy on their laptops discussing some email or another while I watch the sunset over Zuma. It couldn’t be any more perfect.

Now… it’s midnight in Rome. Mr X’s obviously just finished dinner and the emails come flying in on the blackberry. He wants printouts of the press cuttings, details of a film he’s heard about, his mileage account checked, emails to respond to from his friends and that’s just the start. Normal stuff for the job...

Something’s going on but he won’t tell me what. I check my blackberry again. Oooh. Minnie Driver’s email. And Jude Law. I need some new people to hang out with. LA can be lonely and I see from some magazine pictures at a party that Minnie’s in town. I decide against cold emailing her. I don’t think that would be cool right now.

Instead I’m emailing his publicist, him, the new york publicist and his agent’s office. Who, of course, are in the process of changing. That’s the thing about CAA, and LA in general, as far as I can tell, no one lasts long. I really thought I might have a chance getting to know one of them but no… I’m going to go in there next week. I wanna see this bad boy. CAA. How intimidating can it be?

Meanwhile, there’s my life going on in London. I’m still trying to rent the flat out. I think there are tenants BUT they want a fucking sofa. And a coffee table. I’m trying to buy one. On line. I buy one. It’s ordered. It’s amazing. BUT will take four weeks to arrive so the agency says no and picks one that costs £350. WTF? And the coffee table. It’s all a disaster. Yet more money? And the electrical testing? And the phone bill? And everything. I’m using my blackberry while on the freeway trying to sort my shit out. They need signed documents. I’m emailing them, no good, I’m faxing them, they’re not getting them. It seems like the world is incompetent. I’m doing my best here. I don't have a printer. The faxes aren't getting through. Everyone's expecting me to be on top of the situation and I'm not. It's thousands of miles and hours away and aaaargh.

I see online that QPR won tonight and it was snowing in London. I got sun burn. I know where I’d rather be. I then hear we played really well. A slight twinge. Still. Fuck it. I’m in LA. (See the picture of some of my QPR boys...)

I get a call. Do I want to write a book? Ghosting a biography for a friend’s book out here. It’d be a couple of grand up front immediately. I’m not sure. It’s not really my dream. Not today anyway. And also write for a new reality TV show that I'm not sure about. I'm not sure I 'get it'. It’s all opening up here but I’m just not sure. Or perhaps I'm just a bit scared of success...

I’m happy when I get to bed. But. What’s this? Peep peep. It’s 8am in Rome. Mr X’s up. A brief email exchange and then bed. Another day done.

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.