‘Oh honey, no, honey, stop.’

These were the words I had become accustomed to the moment I sat down with the flamboyantly effervescent Ray Minogue, chief stage presence and part-time elocutionist to the clueless. He had a smart side part and a preference for stripes. He also had a real gift for telling you that you were awful and making it sound kind.

His gold pinkie ring glimmered under the stage lighting as he tapped his pen on his notebook for me to start again, only to stop me immediately. It certainly wasn’t doing wonders for my confidence.

Ray sighed, throwing down the notepad and moving from his chair to circle me. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, head held high, as if in deep, contemplative thought.

‘For today’s actor, the ability to speak in a flawless standard American accent is essential. After all, it is becoming commonplace for film and television production companies to cast American roles using non-American actors.’ He stopped, turning to look at me pointedly. ‘But make no mistake: in order to land the role, your standard American accent must sound truly authentic.’

‘And I’m guessing mine needs work.’

‘You guess correct; now, from the top!’

After an hour of going over vocal focus and sound placement, general American cadence, emphasis and stresses, the dominant American ‘R’ sound, vowel sounds and consonants, nuances and observations, I was spent. I had truly underestimated the complexities of faking an American accent, so I booked a session with Ray every day until Monday to help me nail it. He told me several times that he was ‘squeezing me in’ because he was terribly busy; if it weren’t for my connection with Ziggy, he wouldn’t have given me the time of day.

Again that word: ‘connection’. If you didn’t have connections in this town you were in serious trouble. It made my decision to ask Sienna to happy hour drinks feel like a smart move. I needed to infiltrate the #LAfamily, which kind of sounded like I wanted to join the mafia, which wasn’t too far from the truth. The circles Sienna ran in were well documented on social media; the who’s who of the Aussie acting scene who had set off to forge their careers were indeed a tightknit bunch. They were beautiful, buff and tanned, with artistic, exotic Instagram accounts that were extremely staged in order to appear effortless. A bit like the pic I just snapped of the beautiful exterior of the old picture theatre where I met with Ray. I put a moody filter on the slightly angled photo. It made it look rich and mysterious, especially with the cryptic caption, ‘And so it begins.’ Was I on set? Filming, a fashion shoot? Nope, just sitting in a dusty old theatre being rapped over the knuckles for how terrible my accent was. Yeah, I thought it better to leave that part out.

As per usual, I gained enough likes and comments to make me feel validated, after I blocked the trolling comments of course.

And why shouldn’t I feel validated? I was on my way to improving my craft. I was eating a low-fat, no-sugar yogurt as a snack. I had drunk nearly three bottles of water; I was going to be fabulous! So why did I feel like utter death? It was probably due to this being my second sugarless day – way to pick a time to quit sugar, Abby. Yeah, let’s detox when you’re trying to remember lines in an accent that isn’t your own. Brilliant.

It was a deadly combination: hungry and angry – ‘hangry’ – and now, rather than soothing my soul by eating a donut, I had to wash it down with vitamin water.

‘Mmm, delish.’

Hopefully by Monday I would be past the darkest days of the detox. I wanted to fill the void in my life with something other than sugar, and instead glow with radiant, shiny hair that would make Sienna Bailey’s look dull in comparison. I walked aimlessly with my thoughts until one urgent thought broke through.

Where the hell was I?

I had arrived here without incident, thanks to an Uber, but how would I get out of here? Where was here? The sooner Billie’s car got out of the shop the better. I could have a go at driving and exploring LA myself; I just had to make sure I piled on the extra insurance cover, the kind that would probably be equivalent to a mortgage repayment. An extortionate yet necessary cost when dealing with LA traffic chaos.

One thing I had learned in my short time in LA was that it was unlike most world metropolises, where you could step off a plane and onto a train that would whisk you into the heart of the city. LA was far too spread out, its treasures strewn across the whole town and there wasn’t one bus or walking trail that could take you to each and every one. Right now I was somewhere in Downtown LA, a once dead zone that was now a walkable hub of restaurants, bars, performance theatres and museums. These eclectic, if slightly smelly streets were a far cry from the hilly hikes through Griffith Park, the orgasm-worthy Dim Sum in Gabriel Valley and the Westside’s glorious beaches. I had so much to discover, so many opportunities to get lost, as I was right now, knowing I could get myself back on the right track. After all, if I was going to become a local (accent and all), I was going to have to be self-sufficient. I couldn’t always be chauffeured around in a black Mustang, even though I probably wouldn’t have said no to a lift right now.

Standing in the middle of a busy street, I figured it was probably time to search for a bus stop, because the sooner I got out of here the less likely I would be to give in to the siren call of Subway and smash a twelve-inch sandwich, its sign a neon arrow of temptation.

I had to be strong, I had to remain focused; oh God, they had cookies, too. No! I really had to get out of here and, as if the universe was interjecting again, I saw the sign, quite literally.

Bus stop, dead ahead!

I was panicking; two days in and I still couldn’t remember my lines. I was in the blackest mood, no thanks to the pending catch-up with the LA Family tomorrow night and Ziggy’s imminent arrival, upon which she’d no doubt be expecting to hear my fluent American accent. What was I thinking? I had to focus – I had to clear my foggy mind. Despite the weakness of my poor sugar-starved body, I had to snap out of this rut and learn these lines!

Even if it killed me.

Now, in the late hours of the night, with Billie at work, I actually stood a chance. The condo was in complete silence. I sat on my bed with a cool breeze filtering through my opened balcony door, with only the sound of a distant chopper overhead and the usual street traffic that I had become accustomed to. What I had not become accustomed to was the yapping of a little dog in the courtyard below. No doubt the culprit was Veronica’s precious little Sorscha, and she didn’t sound happy. In fact, she sounded like she was alerting the neighbourhood to trouble. I had visions of a masked man climbing up to my second-storey window, the very window that, right now, was wide open and welcoming. He probably had a gun – because everyone had guns here, right?

I slowly leant across to my side lamp and turned it off, now in complete darkness. In the safety of the shadows I edged off the bed and crept to the balcony, squatting down to peer through the wrought-iron railings to see what all the fuss was below. There was Sorscha, giving someone exactly what for and shaking with the effort. Someone had clearly disturbed her late-night toilet run. Good little guard dog.

Veronica suddenly appeared, her long white nightgown flowing behind her; it was only then that I saw who Sorscha was accosting.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jay. I hope she didn’t startle you.’

There, standing by the end of the pool in nothing more than shorts, abs lit by the soft pool light, stood Jay. A towel was draped over his shoulder and his bright white smile shone at Veronica as he unfastened his watch.

‘I think I startled her,’ he said, his voice carrying up and hitting me in the chest. How had I not seen him earlier?

Veronica scooped her up. ‘Say sorry to Jay, Sorscha. You can be very rude sometimes.’

Jay let Sorscha smell his hand before patting her on the head. ‘Oh, it’s alright, she’s just telling me who’s boss.’

‘You and the entire neighbourhood,’ Veronica laughed.

Jay smiled. ‘Well, better get to it,’ he said, turning away from her.

‘Yes, of course, your nightly laps. I’m sorry to interrupt you. But before I let you go, can I ask if you’ve given my proposition another thought? About doing a reading for you sometime?’

Jay might have had his back turned to Veronica but, even from two storeys above, I saw him wince, before plastering on a false smile and turning back towards her.

‘Sorry, Veronica, I’ve just been so busy at the Saloon I don’t know when I could commit to anything.’

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere – just let me know when you’re free. I’m available nights as well,’ she said, clutching her nightgown to herself and giving him a rather alluring look from beneath her blue eyeshadow. I had to clasp my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. This was a classic Mrs Robinson moment, and I had the best seat in the house to watch Jay squirm.

‘Ah, yes, well, nights are for laps, and I’m pretty beat, so …’

‘Oh, of course, just putting it out there,’ she said, smiling and stepping away, not breaking eye contact until she bumped into one of the garden tables. ‘Oops! Better watch where I’m going. Night, Jay.’

‘Night, Veronica.’

He watched her go, unmoving until he heard her flip flops make their way down the path and her door thud closed; only then did I see Jay’s shoulders sag, like he was relieved to be alone. But he wasn’t alone, not exactly. No, he had a voyeuristic neighbour sitting cross-legged on the balcony, head tilted, admiring the view. The unguarded, half-naked Jay. He placed his watch on top of his towel and moved to the pool’s edge. The faint glow of garden lights lit the courtyard well enough, but it was the lights within the pool that really lit the space, giving his beautiful dark skin an emerald glow. He looked like a god, chiselled from stone, and someone had taken extra care carving out his sixpack. Jay was ripped, and though I couldn’t guess what was responsible for his physique, it had to be more than cutting some laps in a pool.

I held my breath until he dove in, slicing through the rippling water. When he eventually surfaced, it was with the perfectly formed freestyle stroke of an Olympic champion, and he even did the flip and push at the end of the lap. Okay, it probably wasn’t actually called the ‘flip and push’ but, hey, what did I know about sports or physical activity? I was hard pressed to do yoga without cramping. Jay’s rhythmic laps were almost hypnotic, aided by the slosh of the water from his powerful kicks.

I leant my temple on the iron bars, transfixed, trying to remember what it was that I was meant to be doing. My eyelids became heavy and I stifled a yawn, not because the show was boring – anything but – but I sure was getting tired.

I was jolted out of my reverie when Jay stopped ten laps later – or perhaps it was a hundred; I hadn’t been counting. Though, as Jay pushed himself out of the pool, I couldn’t help but study his taut abs, which were now glistening in the courtyard lights, droplets of water running over his shoulders, down his strong back and over his drool-worthy chest.

I swear I didn’t blink; instead, I felt my hand tighten on the iron railing as I bit my lip and whispered under my breath, ‘Hello, Hollywood!’