Orli

Disclaimer: I do not know Orlando Bloom or any other celebrities who may or may not appear in this story. It's a work of fiction, that I made up. Although, my birthday is the same day as Orlando's. I don't know how that affects anything, but I just like to tell people. I have no idea of Orlando's sexuality, but this story is not implying anything about it. Again, I say, FICTION.

This story isn't going to be all sexy, all the time. It'll probably get steamy, but you'll have to give it a while. It's like soup. It needs to simmer before it can boil. However, any eroticness you do read, is going to be homosexual man-on-man action, so if you're under 21, 18 or however the hell old you have to be where you are, go and have a sandwich. If the thought of guys doing 'stuff' offends you, you might want to go and have a snack also.

Well, I think that's about it. Oh, no, hang about. If you steal my story I will be very angry. E-Mail me before you post it anywhere else, or ooh, I'll be cross.

Previously . . .

Alone for the first time all day, I had time to sit and think about what was happening. This was insane. I'd woken up this morning having just been irritatingly shagged by my ex-boyfriend and now I was sharing a hotel with Orlando Bloom, my co-star and new best friend (albeit a best friend forced upon me by Clea/Satan).

My mind kept drifting back to when his hand had rested on my arm. He'd been distracted by the phone, that was why it had stayed there, just absent-mindedness . . . but I'd really liked it. And Orlando, well, he was a hottie.

I groaned, and put my head in my hands. Stop it, I said to myself. Stop it stop it stop it because you know this is not going to go anywhere good. He's a nice guy, just enjoy the friendship, you have no idea how long this will last. Be professional.

My mind wanted to think about everything some more, but I'd had a really busy day and I just wanted to sleep. I moved under the covers, laid my head on the fluffy pillow, and closed my eyes.

About five seconds later I started to choke as the mint they'd left on my pillow rolled down the mounded pillow and straight into my mouth. I had a brief moment of panic that they'd find me in here the next morning, in my 'I Heart Love' PJs, choked to death on bad hotel confectionery, before I spat it out onto the beside table. Weakly, I chucked it in the bin, smacked my face into the pillow and eventually drifted off to sleep.

ORLI

Chapter Four

I was a sheep.

A bright purple sheep, if you must know, prancing about my business like only a sheep can. Frolicking over the lush green grass, stopping occasionally to chew and think about my life. Chew. Think. Chew. Think. Ooh, wolf. Oh no, wall. Chew. Think.

Until a farmer wearing a Viking helmet appeared, grabbed by fleecy purple coat and started to shake me, my little sheep nose banging off my fleece, which had grown inexplicably smooth and was smothering my face . . .

'Baa,' I said as I jerked upright, the pillow remaining attached to my face until my upper half got vertical, at which point it slid off, bounced off my stomach and rolled back into place.

Orlando stopped for a second. 'Did you just baa at me?'

'No,' I said groggily. 'I said aah because you were shaking me. Why are you shaking me? What time is it?'

'I'm shaking you to wake you up, and it's quarter past nine.'

'Do you want me to kick you in the face?'

'Pardon?'

'What kind of person wakes another person up at quarter past nine? Do you realise that I didn't even know there were hours before eleven o'clock before? Are you disturbed?'

'Only when you're in the room,' grinned Orlando widely, and yanked the quilt off me.

About two minutes later my reflexes kicked in and I grabbed for it, but he'd pulled it entirely off the bed. I sat there in pyjamas that had the words 'I Heart Love' emblazoned on them, and sighed.

'Well, this is embarrassing.'

Orlando flopped onto the bed and rolled around laughing. I regarded him pristinely for a few minutes, until he raised himself weakly onto his elbows and stared at me with his lovely eyes. 'I Heart Love?'

'Well, I do,' I said with as much dignity as I could muster in my sky-blue jammies. 'Now is there something you particularly wanted?'

'Yes, actually, there is.'

'Apart from torturing me?'

'Well, that was just a fun interlude. No, I actually thought we could start our new 'spend-all-our-time-together-for-that-scary-woman' routine.'

'Her name's Clea. Lucifer will do fine, though.'

'Well, whatever. So you can get dressed - unless of course you're comfortable in those -'

'I was serious when I said I'd kick you in the face.'

'- and then we can order some room service, and then there's this art exhibit I've been meaning to go to.'

I blinked at him. 'Art?'

'Yeah.'

'Nuh-uh.'

'Why not?'

'I don't do art.'

'Why not?'

'It's intellectual.'

'Exactly.'

'You clearly don't know me very well. I don't do clever. Why do you think I'm an actor?'

'Because you're good?'

'Because the world baffles me.'

'Baffles? OK, Rupert, pip pip and I'll make a cup of tea, jolly good.'

'Ooh, I want to kick you.'

Half an hour later I had pulled on one of my favourite T-Shirts - tight and black, with some white Chinese lettering - and paired it up with a pair of bootcut flared jeans that left just the tips of my toes sticking out. I'd washed my hair so instead of the styleage I normally wore at the top, I pulled it all down and sprayed a little hold into it, giving me a short, choppy fringe and making my hair longer, coming to just past the ears in a kind of shaggy, I-miss-the-70s look. I wandered into my 'living room', where Orlando was flicking through the TV channels.

'Do you want to phone room service, or shall I?' he asked.

'Well, I don't know, I mean, who's paying for all this? This is a really nice hotel. I don't want to make the bill skyrocket.'

'The theatre company that hired me for the job, with a little help from my people. They have to pay for hotel rooms all the time, one extra won't break the bank.'

'I'll just have some cereal and orange juice, thanks.'

Orlando phoned down and ordered my breakfast, plus some croissants and coffee for himself, and then looked at me with his head tilted to the side. 'You're wearing your hair different.'

'Yeah, I didn't have the strength to style it so I've just left it down. I-I'll probably do it before we go out though.'

'No no, leave it like that, it looks better. It looks nice,' he said. 'It suits your face down. Matches your cheekbones.'

'It matches my cheekbones?'

'Well, they're really high, and with your hair down you look, I don't know, kind of angular but at the same time soft. Like you're putting on this sharp, witty face, but you're really kind of vulnerable.'

Uncomfortable at the level of intensity he was emitting - especially having only known him for about twelve hours - I said, 'Isn't it weird that they use lemon flavouring in food, but real lemons in cleaning products?'

He was saved from answering by the arrival of our food. We ate in silence for ten minutes, and then Orlando said, 'So really, you don't do art?'

'Well, it's not so much that I don't do it as I try to avoid it.' Seeing the look on his face, I knew I wasn't going to get away without some kind of explanation, so I continued, 'Well, when I'm looking at art it always seems really intellectual, and there are all these people making really deep comments about the pieces, and all I can ever think is "ooh, shiny". I don't know, I just, I don't like putting myself in situations where people are way more intelligent than me.'

'Art critics aren't intelligent. Just snobby. And besides, our characters share a love of art. You should at least see some.'

'But we're actors. We can just pretend we've seen some.' Orlando glared at me for a full two minutes. 'What?'

'You know what.'

'What?'

'You know what.'

'What?'

'You know what.'

'What?'

'You know what.'

'Oh, this is getting ridiculous. I'll go to the art exhibit.' Orlando smiled. 'Except we have to keep this evening free. I'm busy.'

'On a Sunday?'

'Sunday evening. And Tuesdays and Thursdays, and normally Fridays but last week they were closed for refurbishment or something, so . . .'

'You've lost me.'

I sighed. 'Four nights a week, I sing at this restaurant for a few hours. Make an atmosphere, create a mood, it's my other job. It's just, you know, me and this guy Alfredo on a piano, singing songs people want to hear, and every now and then stuff I want to sing. It's no big deal.'

'You sing? Really?'

'Well, not professionally - not really. Acting is my big love, but I paid through school with singing gigs.' I didn't mention the fact my parents could have easily covered the costs. The last thing I wanted him thinking was that I was some kind of spoiled little rich kid who handed the bills to Mummy and Daddy.

'Sing something for me.'

'I'm not a power shower. I don't just sing when you press my button.'

'Go on.'

'No. I'm a proper singer, you know, we don't sing for just anyone.'

'I'll just come and see you tonight then.'

'Well, fine. I don't care.'

'Settled.'

'Again, fine.'

'Come on, we've got an art show to catch.'

'Oh, crap.'

I licked the spoon clean, scooped another spoonful of ice cream out of the undersized, overpriced tub of ice cream I'd bought, and put it in my mouth, where I chewed thoughtfully, remembered I had sensitive teeth and swallowed the ice cream hurriedly. Orlando sat next to me with a matching tub as I was rubbing my lips over the front of my teeth in an attempt to warm them back up. He stared at me for a second, bemused, then shrugged and got started on his own ice cream.

'So what do you think?' he asked between mouthfuls.

'Of the pictures?' I smiled slightly. 'Ooh, shiny.' Orlando grinned. 'I'm sorry, I don't really have an opinion. I mean, they're good, I guess, but you know, but they don't really incite any deep feelings in me. I don't see very much past what colour they are.'

'Well, that's really all there is to art, isn't it?' asked Orlando. 'It's all aesthetics, whether you like the way they look or not. Everything else is just the snobs trying to make everything sound more complicated than it is to keep it from the masses.'

'There's really some kind of anti-class-system rebel boiling under that calm exterior of yours, isn't there?'

'Oh yeah. Rock the system,' laughed Orlando.

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then he turned and asked, 'So what's your favourite piece?'

I contemplated how truthful to be for a second, and then decided honesty was the best policy. 'Uh . . . well, I really liked that naked man.'

'Oh, "Vulnerability"?'

'Oh, is that what it's called? I didn't actually notice the name. But the picture was nice.'

He grinned. 'It's actually my favourite.'

'Really? Huh.' What I actually wanted to say was 'You like naked men?' but that sounded a little tactless, even for me, so I decided to change the subject. 'I can't draw at all.'

'Nah, me neither. I had to do a self-portrait for heat the other week and I had to pretend my publicist had lost it. I couldn't face forcing that on the public.'

'You should've just sent them a picture of yourself. I can't think of anyone who'd mind having THAT forced on them.' Inwardly, I bit my lip till it bled, and whacked myself with my ice cream. I couldn't believe I was flirting with Orlando Bloom! I shouted at my hormones to calm down for a minute, but when I glanced at him again, he was smiling widely.

'Come on,' he said. 'I'm bored of art. Let's go get something to eat.'

He looked at me across the table while we ate. I had some kind of pasta with chicken in it, and he was eating pasta in a tomato sauce, with vegetables and other bits and pieces. We were way into the pasta. 'So what's the story of you?'

I blinked at him as a long piece of pasta slid into my mouth. Damn I'm sexy when I'm eating. 'Come again?'

'You know, how you got where you are.'

'Well, I went to nursery, then primary school, high school, sixth form college, did four years studying Acting at university with a year out in America, and now I'm here in London making a name for myself. How about you?'

'I actually meant . . . you'll have to excuse me if this comes across as rude, but how the HELL do you afford that flat? From what I've heard you're a good actor but you're not getting wages that cover that place. what is this, your first, second play?'

'Third, actually,' I said, 'but the first was at the Edinburgh Fringe and the second was only a little piece that didn't run for much more than a month. This is my first major role, and no, I really can't afford my flat.' Orlando's eyebrows stayed raised in an unspoken question. Oh God, he looked really cute like that. I sighed, and gave in. 'My parents are super rich, yay me, I'm an upper class twit, OK?'

Orlando looked genuinely surprised. 'You're upper class?'

'Well, sorry if my veneer of mud hides that from you.'

'No, no, I didn't mean that at all, it's just the way you talk about snobby people, the way you are . . . you don't strike me as being like that. I mean, I've met a lot of people who come from money and one thing you notice with a lot of them is how calculated they are about everything. It's like they think about every move they make, like everything they do is meticulously planned. You . . .'

'Less with the thinking, more with the crashing and breaking and sliding? I'm a clutz. I know.'

'I wasn't going to say that. Sure, you're a clumsy bastard, but that's cool. I'm talking about your whole personality. You seem really unguarded . . . like you're you, and you don't care who knows it. You're the most genuine person I've ever met.'

Like earlier, I was uncomfortable with how intense this was getting. So far he'd labelled me vulnerable and unguarded, and I'd known him for just over a day, and the way he was staring into my eyes made me want to do a Senator Kelly from X-Men and melt all over the floor. So again, I defused the situation the best way I knew how. 'Where do you think the chicken in this pasta came from?'

'A farm,' Orlando said, quickly dropping back into the friendly banter we'd had going all day. 'And since it's yours I bet that chicken spent its whole life falling over and walking into things.'

'That's not how I spend my whole life.'

'Really?'

'Well, no. Sometimes I say embarrassing things.' The waiter approached and I smiled at him. 'That was delicious, thank you, can we have some tiramisu please?'

The waiter smiled and left the table, and Orlando exploded in fits of giggles across from me. 'What?'

'It's tiramisu.'

'What did I say?'

'Tyramisoo. Like Tyrannosaurus.'

'and how do you say it?'

'Tiramisu.'

'Oh. See? Embarrassing.'

'So when does this little soiree of yours start?'

We were back in the hotel - Orlando's room this time. It was bigger than mine, and had a minibar, with lovely alcohol in it. I drained one of the mini bottles of something delicious, and glared at him.

'It is not a soiree, Mr Bloom, it is a performance, given with the accompaniment of a delicious meal of your choice.'

'Won't the restaurant be booked?'

'To that, I say pfft. The restaurant is never booked. We're not exactly high-profile. And I'm not singing a pop concert. It's mostly bluesy stuff, Norah Jones, John Mayer, Joss Stone, that sort of stuff.'

'I like that stuff.'

'Wait till you hear me sing it.'

'Oh, you can't be that bad.'

I leant back and looked round his room. 'Why were you in my room this morning?'

'Well, I woke up at eight and waited for you to get up, but that clearly wasn't going to happen so I came to wake you up.'

'Well, yeah, I get that bit but why did we stay there? Your room is way bigger and way nicer than mine.'

'Bigger, yeah, nicer? I don't think so. Your room's full of your stuff. Pictures, those little framed things you bought, your cushions . . . you get used to living in hotel rooms, dressing rooms, trailers . . . you start to realise how nice it is to have a home.' He stopped, and sighed. 'Anyway, I'm being all sentimental and you've got your pop concert to get ready for. Come on, move it, sister!'

I leant against the piano. 'I can't do it, Alfredo.'

Alfredo is possibly the cutest man in the world. He's Italian by birth and is so old that I'm pretty sure he was around for the original Olympics. His face is wizened like an old nut and he has this wispy grey hair that you're never really sure if it's attached or not - but when he plays the piano, it takes fifty years off his life and he's a young man again. He's honestly one of the best piano players in the world, and the loveliest person I know.

'Of course you do it, Matthias. Whether celebrity is in the audience or no, you perform for the people, yes?'

'Yes but this is different, Freddy!'

'How? Because you have the love for him?'

'I do not "have the love", thank you very much.'

'The love, the lust, it is all the same for you. He is attractive, you are attractive, you should just make with the sex and enjoy it.'

'Alfredo Garcia! I cannot believe these words are coming out of your mouth! And this is Orlando Bloom, he is categorically straight thank you so kindly for your time.'

'Straight or not, he no stop looking at you since he sat down.'

'Really?' I mentally slapped myself and Freddy. I would have physically snapped him, but he's old and it wouldn't be nice. 'Of course he does, he's waiting to hear me sing!'

'Hmph. Well, all I ask is invite to the commitment ceremony.'

'Are you going to fantasise all day, you dirty voyeur, or are you going to start playing?' I went to the microphone, and smiled at the people sitting and eating. 'Hello, everyone, how's your food? no, no, don't answer that, chef can hear and if anything bad is said, he'll take it out on me. Seriously, you should see that man with a carving knife. Yee-owch.' A few people laughed.

Now, I'm a clutz. I know that. I'm clumsy, and not very good with words, but when I'm in front of a crowd, I'm generally pretty good. My dad did stand-up in college, so maybe I inherited some of that? Whatever, I loved performing and I loved this job.

'OK, folks, I'm going to start now with a little ditty by our friend Lady Nelly Furtado and I hope you all aren't put off your food.' The music started behind me, and I closed my eyes.

I know I have a nice voice. I don't know if I could ever be professional, but I know that I don't care either way, I just like singing. It's the one time in my life I'm not in the midst of some kind of chaos, or falling over. I have a kind of breathy voice and someone once said I was sultry, but I'd had a cold on that occasion so . . .

Orlando seemed to be enjoying it anyway - he didn't stop looking at me the whole time. Inwardly, I sighed. Typical. My singing really had put him off his food.

I let the final note carry on longer than it should - I always do, I like to outlast the piano and I think it sounds better when a note fades away rather than just disappearing - and then gave Alfredo a hug and a goodnight - while he once again told me I should be 'making with the sex' - and clattered down the steps.

Orlando wasn't at his table, but a quick look around revealed him at the bar. I hurried over, and about two feet away from him my over-excitable feet hijacked each other and I grabbed at the stool as I toppled forwards.

Once again, I felt Orlando's hands on my arms as he grabbed me and held me upright. He grinned down at me. 'We've got to stop meeting like this.'

'Well, stop grabbing at me then,' I shot back. 'Honestly, anyone would think I was the celebrity. Also, you're never coming here again.'

'What? Why?'

'I only had the attention of like 30% of the people in here. That 30% being old people who don't know who you are. It's not very often a celebrity comes to a place like this, everyone was totally staring! I could've got naked up there and no one would have noticed!'

'I would have. I was watching.'

'Well, that's nice, at least.' I paused, before diving in. 'I know artistes are not supposed to ask this question, but what did you think?' Before he had chance to speak, I splurged on, 'I try to hard to be soulful, don't I? Like I'm some kind of male Norah Jones. I should just be more natural. Uch, I'm so false! That's it, I'm not doing it again -'

'Matty,' said Orlando in a quiet voice that made me shut up and listen. 'You were amazing. You have the most gorgeous voice I've ever heard in a man. You should sell it.'

'Well, I prefer to act, thank you.' One . . . two . . . three . . . and the compliment sunk in. My brain. The sponge with the worst reflexes in the West. 'You think my voice is gorgeous?'

'Only way to describe it.'

'Well, my voice thinks you're not so bad yourself.' We both laughed softly, then I turned to face the bar, the semi-flirting making me feel a little awkward.

A drink was pushed in front of me. It looked like Coke. 'What's this?'

'Try it.'

I took a wary sip, then smiled and took a gulp. 'Mm-mm, vodka and Diet Coke, absolutely my very favourite! How did you know?'

'When you were getting me up to date on the whole Barry situation, I remember you saying that he bought you it because it was your favourite.'

'Wow. You remember that?'

'Yeah, you said it about five hundred times.'

'Well, I know, I'm repetitive, I'm like a broken record, or a mother, but most people when I hit detail mode just blank me out.'

'Well, that's not the way I work. Either I'm listening or I'm not.' He grinned. 'And with you, it's fun to listen. If only to learn your warped version of the English language.'

'My language is so unwarpy.'

'Ahem.'

'Shut up and drink.'

We stood in the hall between our rooms. Although I wanted to stay and banter with Orlando some more, we'd both got messages from the lobby that Clea wanted everyone in for a rehearsal all day the next day so we could get Orlando established in some scenes, and it was already nearly midnight. With a full day ahead - especially with Clea calling the shots - we needed every bit of sleep we could get.

'Well,' he laughed, 'I guess this is my stop.'

I smiled back. 'Yeah, mine too. Hey, look, our rooms are in the same corridor! Twist of fate, or what?'

Orlando grinned. I really like his grins. 'So I'll see you tomorrow morning, then? Eight?'

'Uh, yeah, but you'll have to come and wake me. 'We've already spoken about my issues with the morning, right?'

'Yes, yes we have. I'll come and wake you up, OK?' He paused. 'You know, we could just ask Reception to give you the wake-up call.'

'Yeah, but I prefer it when it's you.' We both smiled awkwardly for a second, the semi-flirting getting us both offguard again. Then Orlando seemed to come to a decision. He turned and unlocked his door.

'Well, goodnight, Matty,' he said, then on what was apparently an impulse he turned back and kissed my cheek, before turning around and quickly shutting his door behind him. I heard the key twist in the lock, and then I was on my own in the corridor.

I slowly touched a hand to my cheek. It hadn't burned off with the heat, but the way it was building I was going to lose the outer layers soon.

Orlando Bloom just kissed my cheek.

He just kissed my cheek.

He just kissed me.

My cheek.

Me.

Oh God.

I leant back against my door. My door which, tragically, I'd unlocked five minutes ago and left ajar. I let out a resigned 'oh, crap' as I plummeted to the floor and as my head bonked to a rest I sighed again. 'Ouch.'

I shuffled into my room and kicked the door shut, before pulling myself up and locking it. I put a hand to my cheek again.

This has to mean something, right? He kissed my cheek. Except . . . we're both actors. It's an actory thing to do. Maybe he was just being polite.

For the second time in as many days, I put my head in my hands. Then, not willing to lose beauty sleep over it, I slipped into my 'I Heart Love' PJs and went to bed.

To Be Continued.

I am an author and live on feedback. It's like Dairylea to me. Tell me what you think! I'm also not averse to including storylines you might want to see. Bribes are welcome.

madi_mcfarland@hotmail.com

I have to add a note here to my usual blurb: THANK YOU. To all the people who've sent me feedback, really, it's been incredible! To know that I'm sitting here and writing something that you guys are reading - and most of all ENJOYING - makes me feel all warm and tingly, like a mild electric current. Your words of praise are much appreciated, and I promise that as long as there's life in the old dog, I will continue to write. As long as you do. Don't leave me high and dry, boys!

Thank You.

I also have to note that certain fans of the story are taking my suggestion of bribes literally, and sendin me pictures of Orlando Bloom. THIS IS GOOD. More of these please. :) For research, you understand.

Maddy

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