I had just about finished destroying my third napkin for the night, systematically tearing it into smaller and smaller strips with my fingers, my hands hidden from my father's view beneath the table, when dessert finally arrived. Although from the waist up my composure was calm and unflustered, the small pile of shredded napkin remains laying on the floor beneath the table, kept secret by the long and ostentatious and much-too-fancy-to-be-practical white lacy tablecloth, provided a mute testament to how much I hated these dinners with my father.

It was the night of my twice-yearly dinner with my absentee father, that time every six months when I had to meet up with him in an expensive Hollywood restaurant of his choosing (never mine), and essentially beg him to keep paying my tuition at Hollywood Arts. Neither one of us ever wanted to be there - we both hated the experience, and we both had other things we'd rather be doing on a Saturday night. Mind you, he had plenty of money to burn - it wasn't like he really needed to justify his expenditure. But his miserly pride demanded that he get a full accounting of how his money would be spent, before giving even a little bit of it away, even to his own daughter. So every six months, at the end of each semester, I had to provide a report of how I had gone at school: my grades, what I had achieved, what potential job skills or opportunities I had gained, how I had spent my time, and most importantly why he should pay my school fees for the next semester.

And I hated it. I hated every minute of it. I always remembered those nights as being among the most emotionally painful and demeaning experiences of my life. But I needed him to keep paying for school. And he knew it. Because although Mom had gotten the house in the Hollywood Hills as part of the divorce settlement, there was no way her wage could pay for bills, groceries, her car, and Hollywood Arts. Without my Dad's support, one of those would have to go, and it would be HA. And then I'd be stuck in the public school system, probably going to some lame poor people's school in the freakin' Valley, surrounded by losers and ignorant non-creative peasants, and no longer having the opportunities to follow my lifelong dreams and do what I love the most.

So for this night once a semester, I had to play nice - swallow my pride and righteous indignation, manage my anger, bite my tongue and not offer a smartass retort to every stupid and inane thing he said; in short, act like Daddy's little princess. Just for this one night. I'm an actress, aren't I?

I swear it gets harder and harder every time.

Finally dinner was over, and we got ready to depart, neither one of us wanting to drag it out any longer than we had to. I offered to pay for my half, like I always do. He refused the offer, like he always does. As we waited for them to process his credit card, he looked at me, as sombre and stony-faced as ever, and said: "Well Jade, it seems you've been making satisfactory progress. I'll allow you to continue at Hollywood Arts for the time being, but you're coming up to your senior year, so I expect big things from you in the near future."

"Of course. Thank you, Father." I almost vomited when I said it.

We went our separate ways outside the restaurant, him hopping into his new Mercedes to drive home to his new family waiting at his new Beverly Hills mansion, whilst I walked the few blocks to where I had parked Mom's car. I sat at the curb for a few minutes, listening to the engine idle, trying to get my hands to relax their death grip on the steering wheel as I attempted to reign in the anger that coursed through my veins, anger that always bubbled to the surface when confronted with his patronising and judgemental comments and looks. I took a few deep breaths, and resisted the urge to smash something in my Mom's car - I didn't want to have to pay for repairs again like after last time. I kept telling myself that the important thing was that he'd agreed to keep paying my tuition for another semester, and that if it brought me one step closer to being a professional performer, then short-term humiliation was bearable. Yeah, welcome to Hollywood, Jade.

I pulled away from the curb and started the journey back towards home, working my way slowly through the congested Saturday night traffic around Hollywood Boulevard. I was as tense as a coiled spring, and all I wanted right then was to get out of there, and either get drunk, get laid, or both.

When I at last got free of the jam of celebrity SUV's and cabs full of tourists on the Strip, and began winding my way up into the Hills, I reached over and fished my phone out of my purse. I pulled up the number of the girl I knew who could help me… resolve my tension, and hit 'call.'

Maybe there was still hope for this night yet…