The phone rang again, jolting me back to the present. Emily’s agent, this time. Well, not actually David Crowe in person, of course, but some lackey who worked for him, setting up a lunch-time appointment.

Eventually, Emily emerged from the bathroom. ‘Not a single hair remaining. Now where’s his number?’

I handed her the piece of paper, which she kissed. ‘How many people would KILL to have Mort Russell’s direct line?’

She made the call, got put straight through, laughed and said, ‘Thank you, and I totally love your work too,’ a whole lot.

Then she hung up and declared, ‘Guess what?’

‘He trooooly, trooooooly loves your script?’

‘Yip.’ Then she seemed to notice me. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she said, sadly.

‘There was another call,’ I said. ‘David Crowe’s office. Will you have lunch with him at the Club House at one o’clock?’

‘The Club House?’ She clutched me, as though something terrible had happened. ‘He said the Club House?’

‘It was a “she” actually, but yes. What’s the problem?’

‘I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ she called, disappearing and fast reappearing with a book. She flicked through the pages, then read, ‘“The Club House. Power-brokers’ lunch-time haunt where Hollywood’s main men break bread and cut deals. Good steaks and salads…” Never mind that – but you heard what it said. “Power-brokers’ lunch-time haunt”. And I’m going there!’

With that, she burst into tears, the way she had when she’d first found out Hothouse wanted her to pitch. When the storm of tears passed, she surprised me by asking, ‘Would you like to come?’

‘But I couldn’t. It’s a working lunch.’

‘So what? Would you like to come?’

Might as well, what else would I be doing? Sitting on the beach on my own, trying not to think about my failed marriage? ‘Yeah, OK. But will he let you bring me?’

‘Sure! This is the honeymoon period, when they can refuse me nothing. Might as well make the most of it. I was too clueless to capitalize on it the last time. We’ll pretend you’re my assistant.’

‘Won’t he think it’s weird that I know almost nothing about Hollywood?’

‘Well then, don’t ask any questions. Just laugh and nod a lot. Please come.’

‘OK, go on then.’

A quick phone call later and the deal was done.

The weather had changed. Instead of blue skies, the sun shone through thick cloud cover, glaring at the world with a dirty mustard light. My first five days in LA seemed like a charmed time, by contrast. Not only had the weather been benign, but so had my state of mind. At the time I’d thought I was unhappy, but I was far messier now. And to make matters worse, I could no longer get away with blaming any of my feelings of fear or alienation on jet lag. These were mine.

Emily and I drove along Santa Monica Boulevard towards Beverly Hills, and the filthy sky got worse the more we drove inland. Smog, I understood, with a sudden leap of near-excitement. So LA. As iconic as palm trees and plastic surgery.

‘Is he married?’ I asked. ‘David Crowe?’

Emily fell silent, then said, ‘Please stop doing this to yourself. Lots of people get divorced, you’re not so unusual.’

The Club House was noisy and full. Almost entirely with quartets of men who were, incongruously, eating salads and drinking Evian. Emily and I were ushered through the throngs of men to our table. David Crowe hadn’t arrived yet.

I suddenly, urgently wanted a glass of wine, but when I asked Emily if that was OK, she regretfully shook her head. ‘Sorry, Maggie, but you’re supposed to be my assistant. Though, God knows, I could do with several myself. And twenty untipped super-strengths.’ Nervously, she clacked her nails on the table until, in a frenzy of frayed nerves, I grabbed her hands. She looked at me in surprise.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, pretending that I was holding her hands in reassurance.

‘Thanks,’ she said, extricating herself and giving the tabletop another good hammering. ‘Oh, thank God, here’s David.’

Thank God indeed.

She pointed out a clean-cut young man, who looked affable and sure of himself. This meant he was probably a neurotic mess who’d never had a meaningful relationship and who spent five hours a week in therapy. Such, I am told, is the Hollywood way. He gave us a wave and a big, BIG smile. He was no distance from us, yet it took him ten minutes to cross the room, so busy was he stopping at tables, shaking hands, exclaiming with pleasure and generally bonhomieing.

Finally he arrived, held my hand between his two and stared into my eyes. ‘So happy to meet you, Maggie.’

He turned to Emily. ‘And how’s my main girl?!’

All smiles, down he sat, and displayed what a regular at the Club House he was by not even looking at the menu. ‘Cobb salad, hold the avocado, dressing on the side,’ he efficiently told the waiter. Then he launched into gossipy and entertaining conversation about our fellow lunchers. He was almost like a tour guide.

‘As you know, the hierarchy of power in this town shakes down every Monday morning,’ he told me.

‘Depending on the opening weekend grosses,’ Emily said.

‘Right! So see that guy over there, in the suspenders. Elmore Shinto. As of this morning, his career is over. Executive producer of Moonstone, a ninety-million-dollar project. Word on the street said it sucked. They reshot the ending four times. Opened this weekend and TANKED. Studio’s going to take a huge hit on it.’

I was keen to get a look at him, mostly because I was interested in getting a gawk at a man who showed up in public wearing suspenders. As if the Club House was the Rocky Horror Show. Then to my disappointment I remembered that ‘suspenders’ was American for ‘braces’. From the way Elmore was chatting and laughing, he didn’t look like a man whose career was over.

‘That’s the way they do things round here,’ Emily remarked. ‘Always dress it up with a brave face… Until you’re found rocking in a corner, crazed with cocaine psychosis, and you’re carted off to the farm,’ she added, with a laugh. ‘Then there’s no hiding anything.’

‘Er, yeah,’ David said, a little uncertainly, then launched into movie gossip. ‘… saved the studio from takeover… brought in the original producer… three-picture deal… script picked off the slush pile… ten years to get a green light…’