Orla

Fuck. FUCK. That portfolio has extracts from every script I've ever written, pitches for ideas for shows and films I've had, DVDs of some of the stuff I've been in, even costume ideas for the things I've been more obsessed with. My whole life in one folder against the sheer embarrassment at running out of a coffee shop because I literally have no money. I'm actually gonna have to hook. I think to myself desperately. Trying not to cry, I hoist my bag on my shoulder and walk back towards the coffee shop. As it comes into view, four guys come out of it, and in their arms, holy fucking shit, they have my portfolio. And they start walking in the other direction.

"Hey! Hey! Stop!" I shout. I've already made a massive twat out of myself once today - why not go all the way? They turn around, and holy shit those better not be smug smiles on their faces. Fucking Americans. Not even that. Fucking LA kids. One of them looks kind of familiar, but I don't like the smile on his face. This is a time of major distress for me. How dare they smile about it?

"We believe this is yours?" That annoying smile. Not as annoying up close. Friendly, even. I note also that his eyes are a really interesting colour. And I'm a sucker for a boy with curly hair. Always have been.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Orla Ryan, huh? Is that an Irish name?" The small freckled one pipes up.

"Did you read this?" I accuse instantly, my face once again flushing red.

"No, it ... It says your name right on the front, there." I look down and realise he's right. Awkward.

"Oh, right. Sorry ... Bad day. I promise I'm not always a bitch. And yeah. Irish blood. English girl."

"Ohh see, I thought I detected an accent." Back to Curls. I try my best to smile. "So what brings you to LA?"

"Desperation, boredom, heartbreak. The usual." What is it with me telling my life-story to strangers lately? This needs to stop. No wonder I've only made friends with one person in a whole month of being here. I see he's taken aback slightly by my abruptness. I make a mental note to try and stay, and be polite, even though I'm dying to get away and I can feel my feet shifting all by themselves. He looks briefly at his friends. Besides the short freckled one, there's a kinda chubby guy in a cap and a too-big jersey, and a guy that frankly looks too old to be hanging out with them. He looks a bit like a mean fish. Or like someone got a mask and just punched out holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. "Sorry. I kind of blurt out whatever I'm thinking a lot. Bad at first impressions." Before Curls or one of the others has a chance to reply, my phone beeps. I jump instantly at it. It's Lloyd. Thunderbirds are go!

"Um. I have to go, but - thanks - for, you know. Not running off with my portfolio. Kinda got my whole life in there." I start to move but the freckled one speaks again.

"Portfolio? You a writer?" I recognise a New York accent. I love New York accents. Well, not all of them. Soft ones, like this. I wonder if they're all from New York.

"Er ..." I pause, embarrassed. "Something like that. Jack of all trades, master of none. Anyway ... it was nice meeting you. Thanks." I rush off in the opposite direction, thinking once again how different it is here to home. At home, whoever worked in the cafe would take the folder, put it beneath the desk, and if someone showed up for it, cool. If not - bin. I'm not sure which I prefer. It's nice that Americans are friendly, it's just a shame that I have no idea how to be friendly back.