Holy-wood

I didn’t sleep last night, but that’s not a surprise. I was wondering what to do about the job offer. I didn’t have any other options, but in some ways I’d rather never see that man again than have to deal with feeling like shit every time I saw him because I felt so rubbish about myself. There was also the whole humiliating myself in front of him on a daily basis thing to worry about. I doubted he was used to people keeping him waiting, so I took out the card from my pocket (now dog eared and creased from being unfolded so many times last night) and typed out a quick text saying I would love the job, but not to expect much as I had no clue of what I would be doing. He replied almost instantly, telling me I start tomorrow, bright and early, and sending me an address to meet him at. Shit.

          The rest of the day was devoted to trying to get coffee stains out of my one shirt, desperately scrubbing like a mad woman. It didn’t work so I went to the shop, bought a ton of coffee and dumped it in the sink with the shirt and boiling water. We used to do this at school to make paper look like parchment, but this was important! If I made it look worse, what in the hell was I going to wear? If I turned up in a badly dyed shirt, he would be a laughing stock as I would be representing him. I had to look half professional. At the moment I had a pair of smart trousers and a couple of nice bras as the shirt was still soaking. This couldn’t work.

          After four hours I rinsed out the sink and shirt, the whole apartment smelling of cheap coffee (it was better than urine that was for sure). I held it up to the light and groaned. It looked worse, much, much worse, as in I’d been in a mud wrestling tournament. The colour was uneven and patchy and it did in fact look like the paper were used to dye at school…like a kid had done it. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

What do I do now? I could get some brown or black dye and do it properly, but I couldn’t afford it! Shit! I needed a charity shop! What did they call them over here, thrift stores? Would I even be able to afford that?

          I gathered all my change and found I had a grand total of $7 to get me through to my first paycheque. My savings were earmarked for rent, not luxuries such as food and clothing. I swallowed my pride and headed downstairs to ask the creep at the door if there were any thrift stores around. He narrowed his eyes, blew smoke into my face and laughed, walking away through the ‘staff only’ door. Well fuck you too buddy! I was somehow going to get very rich and then buy and destroy this building with him in it.

          The usual suspects were hanging around outside the building, asking again if I wanted to ‘party’ with them. I politely declined and walked away quickly. Today just got better and better. I went to visit my ‘friend’ at the local store and ask if there were any thrift stores in the area. He surprised me by giving me directions to two! I thanked him over and over, buying an apple out of guilt. The first shop wasn’t hard to find, but was more a ‘vintage clothing store’ i.e. extortionate. The second one was slightly better with racks and racks of shirts. It was the size of a small supermarket, clothing and furniture of every kind. I found several shirts in my size, and bought two (they were $3.50 each! YAY!) one white, one black. They smelt a bit like moth balls and cigarette smoke, but I couldn’t have cared less. It was slightly better than smelling like I’ve bathed in coffee.

          Back at my flat I washed the shirts and desperately tried to dry them, wringing them out, swinging them around in the bathroom…anything to get them ‘less wet’. I need my own reality TV show as someone would find my bad luck hilarious. The building had a laundry room, but the creep at the desk delighted in telling me it was out of order. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford it. He did have an iron though, which he grudgingly leant me, the wires bare and on the verge of breaking. I might die just to dry and iron a shirt. There were worse ways to go, so I sucked it up and ironed the bloody things, using the counter as a board. It worked ok. They smelt of soap now which was good and they looked pretty good. I’m always in charity shops back home due to a lack of finances, so that wasn’t even an issue, it was just the worry that I wouldn’t notice a HUGE tear up the back or something equally ridiculous.

 

Sleep didn’t come willingly that night either. I spent the time studying his recent career I those awful mags, trying to grasp what I could about him. There was a feature on a charity event he had run for Oxfam (A famine charity from the UK) to raise money. They’d managed over a million dollars apparently and donations were still coming in. So he was a philanthropist as well as handsome, talented, sweet and every other bloody perfect part of him. They did have a hilarious feature in one of the magazines about (as he was currently single) how to impress Van Murphy so he will date you. As funny as it was, it stated his favourite foods, brand of cigarettes (blergh, I’d be putting a stop to that!) and how he liked his coffee. I would be sucking up majorly tomorrow and turning up with coffee when I met him. Heh heh heh. Maybe it’ll make up for the monumental ways I will fuck up for the rest of the day until I get fired (because it is inevitable) I just hope he’s willing to pay me for the one day, I really am going to struggle otherwise.

          Morning came and the day was gorgeous as usual. I dressed, drowned myself in perfume, scrubbed my teeth three times, flossed, mouth washed and chewed gum to ensure I was as un-gross as possible. I found the building quite easily as his directions had been pretty specific thankfully. There was a coffee shop across the street so I headed there first, grabbing him a coffee and pastry (apparently he is awful for remembering to eat Breakfast. I’d be his girlfriend in no time…as if. I just hoped no girls actually thought an article like that could ever help them, even though it was helping me) I charged them to my card, which would now be overdrawn, but that was fine.

          I walked back to the building and stood waiting nervously as it was still locked up. My knees were alternating between shaking and locking from fear. Finally a beaten up Ford truck pulled up and parked, that glorious earth bound angel stepping out. He is probably very rich, but drives that thing! I love him!

          “You found it ok?” He said.

I nodded once, muted by terror, and handed him the coffee and pastry.

He looked inside the bag and his eyes lit up before inhaling the smell of coffee deeply.

          “Thank you. You’re already my favourite PA ever.” He said with a laugh, taking a long drink from the cup.

          “How many have you had?” I asked in a small voice.

          “You’re my first actually, so this could be interesting. Do you prefer Georgiana, or something shorter?” He tore a chunk from the pastry, his blue eyes dancing.

          “George, or whatever you like Mr. Murphy.” I said, keeping my eyes lowered like a Victorian scullery maid. He made me so bloody nervous. At least I hadn’t dropped the coffee on him. Just thinking about that made my own burns throb. They didn’t hurt too badly, but I had completely drowned them in antiseptic cream three or four times a day.

          “Van.” He said, sipping the coffee again. He stretched his arms above his head and tried to suppress a yawn.

          “Van.” I repeated. I’d be calling him Mr. Murphy before the day was out no doubt.

His eyes would constantly flick down to meet mine, an insecurity that wouldn’t allow him to meet my eyes fully. This boy was a complete antithesis. He had the whole world at his feet, drooling over him, but he seemed to hate the attention. Every picture in the magazines that hadn’t been for an ad or movie promo had had a frown or blatant discomfort on his face. I think he was far, far deeper than anyone gave him credit for, there was a lot more going on with him.

          “I read you have a son.” I said, trying to find a topic that he would enjoy talking about.

His whole face lit up, from his eyes to the corners of his mouth pulling into a fond smile.

          “Luke. He’s 12 now. He splits his time between mine and Sofia’s.” He was gazing into the distance, lost in some memory.

          “Do you have a picture?” I asked.

He nodded, pulling his wallet from his pocket and taking out a well-loved picture. I knew there would be no doubt that the kid would be gorgeous, his genes were insanely perfect, but he was so cute! His hair was white blonde, he looked tall and slim with his father’s eyes and the brightest smile! I’m not a fan of kids and definitely don’t want them, but his sweet grin made my heart melt a little. I could see why he was so proud -he was practically bursting with it. I was relieved not to have to pretend he was gorgeous when he was ugly. I’d had to do that no end of times with relative’s babies, and I was an awful actress.

          “He is stunning.” I said, meaning it and thankful it sounded sincere. Sometimes when I speak, even if I am being completely honest, I sound sarcastic or false. I overthink things and they come out sounding wrong.

Van beamed at me, finishing the pastry and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. Urgh.

He held them out to me and I shook my head violently. Lung cancer? No thank you.

          “I probably should have asked this first, but what are we here for?” I said, realizing I should have brought notepads, or a diary….but they’d have to wait, I was too broke.

          “Interview. My personal hell.” He said with a wicked smile. “There are only so many times I can be asked the same question and not murder someone.”

I choked out a nervous giggle. That is exactly how I would feel in his position. I suddenly felt worried that I would have to insert ‘NO COMMENT’ s if they asked an awkward question, but I didn’t know what was awkward or not. What were the taboo subjects? Would it be professional or polite to ask?

I was chewing clean through my lip when Van interrupted my thoughts.

          “You don’t have to do anything or say anything today, it’s just to give you an idea of how boring and monotonous this area of my life is, to see if you still want the job.”

          “From what I’ve read –and they weren’t the most reliable sources- you need someone to ensure you eat and sleep more than anything else.” Once the words were out, I flinched, bracing myself for an angry tirade which I no doubt deserved. Who said things like that! On their first day when they don’t even know the person!

He laughed, and it was such a wonderful sound, my body relaxed a little. He lit the cigarette and took a deep draw, blowing the smoke away from me like a gentleman. I hated that he made it look good. Smoking is probably the dumbest thing humans have come up with (apart from cheese in a tube, a pet rock, and a whole encyclopedia full of other moronic things) and I loathed it, but he just looked incredibly charming and sexy when he did it. Maybe it was the ‘bad boy’ edge to it? That couldn’t be it as I usually thought smokers were complete D-bags, especially when they claimed to be ‘social smokers’.

I had lost myself somewhere in the middle of this internal rant when Van laughed softly.

“You should see the expressions going across your face. You’re not having a seizure are you?”

I could feel myself blushing, but the way he said it made me grin. I bit my lip to stop it.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together if you want the job, so I should probably warn you about my warped sense of humour, the way I greet people by flipping the bird, the smoking, the bike obsession, the not eating properly, sleeping properly and general inability to look after myself like an adult should.” He chewed his fingers after saying all this.

“So you need a mother, not a PA?” I said, feeling that he might find this funny. He didn’t have the airs and graces that I had expected from a Hollywood movie star. He was downright sane and grounded, he even mocked himself. His ego was hell of a lot smaller than it had any right to be in his circumstances. I really hope he kicks puppies or something, otherwise I can see myself falling completely, head over…

“Something like that.” He stubbed out the cigarette butt and lit another.

“As your PA, do I get to comment on things that are detrimental to your health and wellbeing?” I said, making my eyes wide and innocent.

He raised an eyebrow and took the fag out of his mouth and put it back in the packet.

“I’m suspecting that you’re actually something of a drill sergeant in the body of a tiny, skinny British girl.” Both of his eyebrows raised in surprise and teasing.

Finally, someone who understood me!