I pulled up in front of the address Pam had given me, a great old Spanish-style apartment building in the heart of Hollywood. Built sometime in the 1920s, it had balconies and balustrades and an authentic Spanish red-tile roof.

Unfortunately, the inside of the building was a lot less impressive than the outside. Whoever owned it clearly was not spending anything on upkeep.

I headed up the chipped tile stairs to Pam’s apartment. The stairwell reeked of cabbage. I sure hoped it wasn’t part of the dinner Pam had promised me in exchange for helping her with her resume.

I rang the bell and Pam answered the door in sweats and Reeboks, clearly a graduate of the Jaine Austen School of Dressing.

“Hi, there,” she beamed. “It’s so sweet of you to help me with my resume like this.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said, still kicking myself for not charging her.

“I told everyone in the PMS Club that I’m bringing you to the meeting tonight. They can’t wait to meet you. Now c’mon in and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She ushered me into a huge room with a high vaulted ceiling and French doors leading out onto a balcony.

“This is the living room,” she said. “And the bedroom. And the study. And the den. And the library.”

“Oh, it’s a studio apartment.”

“Yep. Come see the bedroom.”

She led me to the corner of the room, and there, behind a Victorian screen, was an old brass bed with what looked like a hand-sewn quilt and a platoon of kitschy souvenir throw pillows. I loved the way she mixed Victoriana with Americana and topped it off with junk shop finds. The whole place was like that, an eclectic mix of furniture, most of which I suspected she’d picked up at second-hand stores.

I admire people who can throw different styles together and have it come out looking good. When they do it, it’s eclectic. When I do it, it’s a mess.

“Your place is fantastic,” I said, taking it all in.

“But wait,” she said. “The tour’s not over yet. You haven’t seen the Pam Kenton Hall of Fame.”

I followed her across the room.

“Voila!” she said, opening the door to her vintage bathroom, with its badly cracked original tile and fixtures that were installed back when Fatty Arbuckle was in diapers.

“It’s sure got a lot of character,” I said.

“I’d prefer some water pressure, but I guess I’ll have to settle for character.”

“So where’s the hall of fame?”

“Here,” she said, pointing to a wall covered with 8x10 framed glossies. “Here I am, in all my theatrical triumphs.”

I stepped closer to get a better look.

“Here’s me as Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.”

“Wow, that’s great. Was that on Broadway?”