‘Orlando!!’ Viggo pounded on the door to his friend’s London flat. ‘Orlando, open up!’ Panic laced his voice, borne of the icy fear engulfing him. No answer; he tried the door. When it opened, he pushed through and slammed it behind him, running through the rooms. He thought he heard a moan from the bathroom. Though he’d been expecting the worst, and preparing himself for what he might find, he was still stunned by the sight that greeted him.

Orlando lay curled in a foetal position, blood pooled around his left arm; his right hand limply held a razor blade. He tried lifting his head, too weak from loss of blood to do much more than roll it; his normally olive complexion was unnaturally pale. ‘Vig . . .’ he started, his voice trailing off.

‘Ssshhhh; don’t talk. I need to call 999!’

‘No,’ it was meant to be a cry of protest; instead the word barely passed his lips.

‘Orlando, you are half dead already!’ Viggo was already dialling the telephone. When the operator assured him that rescuers were on the way, and that no names would be given, to be discreet, he hung up.

‘Why?’ he asked his friend.

‘Not suicide . . .’ Orlando muttered. ‘Not a nutter. Just . . . feels better if I cut.’

The wail of a siren outside cut of Viggo’s response. He ran to the foyer to let the rescuers in. When the lead medic saw Orlando, he stopped.

‘That’s . . .’ he started.

‘Yeah it is, and if his name gets leaked, you'll be the first one I come looking for,’ Viggo said, menacingly.

While the medics worked on Orlando, a constable questioned Viggo.

‘How long has he been like this? How did you come to find him?’

‘Like what and he called me in Los Angeles. Told me that . . . something happened and that he needed a friend. So I came. He didn’t seem quite right on the phone, sounded pretty depressed, so when he didn’t answer, I walked in.’

‘When did he call you?’

‘About thirty hours ago. I booked the first flight I could.’ At this point, the medics wheeled the stretcher past Viggo; he stopped them. ‘Cover his face. This doesn’t need to get leaked out at this point.’ To the bobby, he added, ‘You’ll have to come to the casualty ward; I’m going with him now.’

At the hospital, the doctor cleaned the cuts on Orlando’s arm; it was too late for stitches. He ordered whole blood to be run along with an IV of saline, to replace the lost blood volume. He also ordered a suicide watch, which frustrated Viggo.

‘He doesn’t need a damn suicide watch, this was not an attempt. He’s a cutter—he cuts to make himself feel better!’

‘Nevertheless, he’s under a suicide watch. Now, he’s being admitted, what name do you want us to admit him under?’

Viggo thought for a moment. ‘Christian Balson. Is he going to be okay?’

‘He is going to live. The rest is up to him. Shall I notify his family?’

‘No,’ Viggo said his answer short and flat. ‘Put him in a private room. The difference between insurance payment and charges will be covered.’

Upstairs, in Orlando’s room, Viggo sat down by his friend’s bed. ‘You, my friend, look like utter and complete hell.’

Orlando moaned. ‘Feel like it too. Not suicide,’ he said insistently, his eyes pleading with Viggo to believe him.

‘Relax, I believe you. Henry had a friend that was a cutter. It’s actually quite common. But why do you cut? I had no idea you were unhappy.’

‘Kate left me. My movies have been flopping. Everyone talks about me like I’m a has-been. I get so depressed some days that I can't get out of bed except to use the loo. Cutting releases the tension, makes me feel alive again.’

‘Except this time,’ Viggo noted wryly.

‘Yeah. The blade was sharper than I expected. I just barely nicked the artery I think. That was when I called you. Should've called 999, but then I'm just another nutter that can’t cut it.’

‘Pun forgiven,’ Viggo commented. ‘Orlando, prissy elf—does it matter so much what others think? And getting help takes more courage than giving up. But you have to want to get help.

‘There’s nothing wrong with depression—hell Dom had it after filming wrapped in 2001.’

‘But Tom Cruise . . .’

Viggo cut him off. ‘To hell with him! Does he have a fucking medical degree? He’s no more qualified to make statements about medical disorders than I am to perform a fucking surgery!’

Orlando squeezed his eyes shut, fighting tears. He always felt ashamed when he cried, if it wasn’t for the camera or from an injury. He fought a sob, unsuccessfully. Viggo grasped his hand and squeezed. Then he picked up the phone.

‘Sonia, hi; it’s Viggo . . . Good thanks but I need to tell you something . . . He’s okay, but he’s in hospital. Well, I’d rather let you know in person. Just come to the second floor. I’d rather not say anything else over the phone. Yes, I promise he is all right.’

Orlando moaned. ‘I don’t want my mum seeing me like this.’

‘Can you think of anyone else who deserves to know more than her?’

Orlando closed his eyes and shook his head. Viggo strolled to the window and looked out over the city. Without looking at Orlando, he spoke, quietly.

‘Dom called me one night, collect. He didn’t have a phone, so he was on a public phone. He was in tears, or close to it. He felt empty, because the trilogy was all he’d known for years. He was scared, depressed, and near suicide. We talked for about four hours. He was afraid that after Lord of the Rings he was going to be a has-been. Especially since he was getting nothing in the way of job offers.

‘One thing he said was how lucky you, Orlando, are. The movies were your ticket to other good roles. All of us earned recognition for the roles we played, but you're the only one who became a mega-celebrity. The problem with that, is that everyone—fans, directors, producers, and so on—expect anything you're in to be a hit. That’s a lot of responsibility for you.’ He turned and saw Orlando’s chocolate brown eyes full of tears. ‘You’ve handled this remarkably well. It’s not easy to go from having been in one made-for-television film to international superstardom.

‘I then told Dom what I’m now telling you: you are not as lucky as he thought. Most overnight successes take an average of thirteen years. You did it with one trilogy of films. That is a lot of pressure.

‘Orlando, I’m proud of you. You have handled the last few years so unbelievably well, in ways that many actors twice your age with four times as much experience are incapable of. You went from relative anonymity to being a bug under a microscope. And you have come through beautifully. This,’ he gestured to his arm, ‘is nothing to be ashamed of. Men with greater life experiences than you have fallen from less.’

Orlando swallowed. Viggo understood. He wasn’t alone.

‘Thanks mate,’ he whispered, ‘for understanding and being here. I’m going to get help, and get through this.’

Viggo smiled then. ‘I know elf-boy. And I’ll always be here for you.’

‘So will I,’ Sonia added from the doorway.

Orlando smiled; he really would be okay.

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