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Wednesday (the day after my birthday) [Jan. 17th, 2004|11:27 am]
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traveller
He knows, with the kind of fierce certainty that comes from having started drinking at four in the afternoon, that he is not a good actor. Usually he is at least a competent actor, but not today, no, today he was just a bloody prat playing dressup. Just an arse who fluffed his way through two scenes at about forty thousand takes apeice, until finally Ridley pulled off his headphones with the kind of sharp, deliberate motions he only used when he was really super brassed off.

"Let's call it an early day," he said, jaw working stiffly side to side. "We're still on schedule, as long as nothing goes wrong tomorrow."

Orlando could read, in his director's raised eyebrow, at least sixteen different ways he'd die if anything went wrong tomorrow.

So back to his hotel suite, back to fuck-the-mini-bar-there's-bloody-room-service, back to a message light that was so not blinking, and a cell phone that had only saved messages, and the nauseating knowledge in the pit of his stomach that he was a great big fake.

See, if he was the real thing? If he was the right thing? Viggo would've called by now.
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