After about a year of dating, Orlando Bloom and Katy Perry have mysteriously called it quits, according to People. “Before rumors or falsifications get out of hand, we can confirm that Orlando and Katy are taking respectful, loving space at this time,” read the statement from both of their reps. Too late. Following a year of (entirely falsified) accounts of their relationship, here is our (entirely falsified) account of their split.
February 26, Vanity Fair Oscar party:
9 p.m.: Katy Perry clutches Derek Blasberg's arm as they both pose for the paparazzi. “Say it, Derek,” she whispers under her breath. Derek hesitates. “DEREK,” shrieks Katy. “OK,” says Derek. “I'll say it.” He clears his throat. “I am Orlando Bloom. You can do anything you want to me. I am your eternal slave. I took off my bathing suit for you and pretended to be a gondolier. You sent me to Obama's office in a horse mask. You made me wear a Tamagotchi to the Met Gala. I loved it.”
Katy relaxes. “Now we can have fun.” They clomp into the party. (At the start of their friendship, Katy instructed Derek to impersonate a horse every time they walked away from paparazzi.)
9:15 p.m.: “This is my boyfriend, Orlando Bloom,” says Katy, introducing Derek to Tom Ford. “That's Derek Blasberg,” says Tom Ford. Katy's eyes go black. “No,” she says. “It's Orlando, my devoted boyfriend who never challenges my authority.” Tom Ford nods. “OK,” he says. Derek looks directly into Tom Ford's eyes. “Help me,” he mouths. Tom Ford finishes his gimlet, coolly crushes the glass in his hands, and walks away.
Across the room, Patricia Clarkson stares at Katy and Derek, trying to understand what's going on. She turns to Josh Hartnett, who has been standing beside her, woodenly, for over an hour, watching Javier Bardem eating salted caramels. “Josh, what do you think is going on?” she asks.
Josh looks at her for the first time. “Josh?” he says. “Oh, right, Josh.” He accepts a caramel from Javier Bardem's palm, and the two men nod happily at one another before heading toward the bar. Patricia pulls out a paper and pen and begins to take notes.
9:20 p.m.: Orlando Bloom stands on the red carpet, alone. Despite the heat lamps, he shivers. He knows she is near. His love, his life, his biggest fear, his darkest demon. Katy. He can smell her from a mile away — tequila, sunscreen, roses, sharks. He hasn't spoken to her in weeks, not since he arrived at the surprise birthday party that she'd thrown for him. It was out of character for her — celebrating another human life — and it had made him immediately nervous.
He can still remember it: walking in, seeing the owl cake, wondering why it was an owl cake, realizing it was because Katy thought his butt looked like a sleeping owl, laughing a little too loud at the reference, blowing out the candles with a little too much force, getting wax in his teeth. Looking up, seeing Katy's new blonde hair, reaching out to touch it appreciatively. Katy snatching his hand away, her face darkening. “That's right. I'm the blonde in this relationship now, Owl Tush,” she'd sneered. “Time for you to go back to your roots. It's almost time for me to start my album promo cycle, and if we're both blond on red carpets, nobody will take ‘Chained to the Rhythm’ seriously. At least one of us has to look sad and wintry.”
He'd reached up and touched his own blond locks. “Katy,” he'd said, “this hair is for my role in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales, which sees my character, Will Turner, getting so scared his hair turns blond.” But both of them knew this was a lie. Filming had ended months ago, after Johnny Depp had turned them all into enemies of the Australian state. In truth, Orlando had dyed his hair blond because he'd been trying to confuse Justin Bieber into thinking they were the same person, in hopes that they'd stop punching each other in Ibiza.
Katy had walked over to the table and dunked her face deep into the owl cake, refusing to come up for air until Orlando's own mother dragged her away, choking. Katy hadn't spoken to him since, even though he'd frantically texted and called her and even traveled all the way to England to teach 11-year-olds how to act, at her subtle urging. (“I hate how bad 11-year-olds are at acting,” she'd said once, idly, during a midnight viewing party for Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close held to celebrate Jonathan Safran Foer's birthday.) Finally, out of desperation, he'd dyed his hair brown again and traveled to Niger with UNICEF, performative humanitarianism being one of Katy's few weaknesses.
None of it had worked. Now, here he is, brunette and alone and afraid on the red carpet. He clenches his owl buns and walks inside.
10 p.m.: Orlando hides behind a white hydrangea, watching Katy chat animatedly with James Corden, both occasionally breaking into unprompted renditions of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” A waiter walks by with a tray of In-N-Out burgers. Orlando reaches for one, and the waiter slaps his hand away. “These aren't for traitors,” the waiter hisses.
Katy bends over, and Orlando sees that the top of her dress — a shimmery Jean Paul Gaultier number with a strategically placed mesh insert — is separating from the bottom half. He sees the headlines already: “Not Chained To Her Own Dress,” the NY Post will write. “Out Of Rhythm With Decency?” the Daily Mail will shriek.
“Katy!” he screams, despite himself, from behind the hydrangea.
Katy turns around. He sees her register his presence, then coolly face James Corden. “Orlando, some insane man is yelling at me from behind a hydrangea,” she says to James Corden. James Corden's face changes. “That's ... Orlando Bloom, your boyfriend,” he says. Katy starts to laugh. “You're Orlando,” she says, hoisting James Corden up by the armpits and placing him into a squishy chair. She sits on his lap. “You're Orlando now.”
10:10 p.m.: Orlando is drinking. He has managed to flag down Caitlyn Jenner, whom he begged to grab him something, anything, from the bar. Caitlyn, a staunch Republican, had at first shaken him off like a street urchin in a Dickens novel — “my political beliefs prevent me from helping out anyone in need, especially people who are not American” — but eventually ceded to his pleas after he'd started weeping into her dress.
Across the party, Orlando watches Katy pluck a handful of truffle popcorn from Dev Patel's bag. Both giggle. “I love you, Orlando,” she says, chomping on the seeds. Dev Patel grins uncomfortably. “Common mistake. It's Dev, actually,” he says. Katy plunges her hand into the bag. “No,” she says. “It's not.”
From behind him, Orlando hears a soothing voice. “It doesn't have to be this way,” whispers Patricia Clarkson. She grabs Orlando's arm and both disappear into thin air.
10:11 p.m.: Orlando and Patricia Clarkson are floating in space. “What the fuck?” says Orlando, groping at the darkness, feeling his lungs slowly disintegrating. “Orlando, we don't have much time,” says Patricia Clarkson. “I'm an intergalactic detective sent here to help you.”
Orlando nods, familiar with the concept thanks to his work on The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, which originally had an intergalactic detective scene that was cut for time.
Patricia Clarkson puts her hands on Orlando's face. “Orlando,” she says. “It's time for you and Katy to break up.” Orlando gasps, then almost dies, because there's no oxygen in space. “Yes, don't gasp,” says Patricia Clarkson. “I'm serious, though. I've been following you both for over a year and my conclusion is that this relationship isn't working.”
Orlando nods. He knows she's right. “Thank you, Patricia Clarkson,” he says solemnly. “It's my job,” says Patricia Clarkson. Both poof back to the party.
10:12 p.m.: Patricia Clarkson bids farewell to Orlando and begins to walk toward Jared Leto, who is standing alone in a corner, wearing a Gucci bathrobe coat. “Jared,” she begins, “it doesn't have to be this way.”
Orlando turns his attention back to Katy. She's sitting on a couch now with Tom Ford and Allison Williams. Katy is referring to both of them as Orlando, and Allison is the only one responding.
Orlando walks up to the trio. “Katy,” he says gently. “Can we talk?”
Katy yanks Orlando onto the couch, on top of Tom Ford, who grunts and leaves. “Actually, let's stand,” says Katy. She hoists Orlando up by the armpits and pulls him close to her. “Smile,” she says. The two pose for a photo.
Allison Williams sits behind them, wondering if it'd be awkward to move. She decides that it would, and instead lets the couch swallow her.
Orlando, sensing he will never again get close enough to Katy to tell her the truth, puts his face next to her ear. “Katy,” he says. “We have to end it.”
Katy nods, continuing to smile for the photographer who's no longer there. “Patricia told me you'd say that,” she says, her pose rigid. “The truth is, I stopped loving you the moment I dyed my hair blonde. The moment I saw myself, I knew that I had transcended to a new plane, a plane where I was able to critique the suburban experience and the American dream from within. You wouldn't understand. We are no longer equals, intellectually. You are chained to the rhythm. I, alternatively, am not.”
“I agree,” says Orlando, automatically. The two part peacefully and without bloodshed. Jessica Alba glides by with her husband, Cash Warren, in search of the photo booths.
February 27, Patricia Clarkson's home in space:
9 a.m.: Orlando Bloom rolls over and smiles at Patricia Clarkson. “Orlando,” says Patricia Clarkson, “do not get attached. I am trying to teach you a lesson about self-respect and the impermanence of human relationships.” Orlando nods. “The Buddhists have a word for this, a word that's often used by the intergalactic detective agency that I work for. But instead of saying it, I am going to demonstrate it by transforming into a dog,” says Patricia Clarkson.
Patricia Clarkson transforms into a dog. Orlando, freed by this revelation, Instagrams a photo of his new love. “A mighty heart,” he types into the caption box. He gets up, ready to face the day.