Love.
Hello.
It's a reason for being.
A reason to do better, do the right thing.
-Be brave. -I wolf you.
But Love burned me out completely.
Yes, that's Love with a capital L. Wife.
Why don't you love me anymore?
-Mother of my child. -I killed Natalie for you!
I did my best, but she was-- I hate to call a woman "crazy," but, well--
I did everything to be a good man, a good husband, a good father.
I always do everything I can.
Can't say I've got the most impressive track record in the history of romantics.
But my heart is in the right place.
Love couldn't understand me, but, Marienne, you understood.
We were the same,
meant for each other on every level.
-He lied to you. -I'm sorry, what?
What if I told you Joe's the one who killed your ex?
No, Ryan was mugged.
You need to run. Disappear.
Ryan is just the beginning of what he's willing to do.
Until Love poisoned the well and you ran.
I can't blame you, Marienne.
We both know who's to blame here.
Because of Love, my world went up in flames and I--
Well, as people everywhere read in New York magazine, People,
and on Vox.com, I died by Love's hand.
Thankfully, I knew good people to watch over Henry.
I had to leave him behind. For now.
The hardest thing I've ever done.
Love tests us.
I've been tested more than most.
Turned into a ghost.
No home, no name, all for you.
So I'll admit,
when I went to find you,
I told myself, this is the last time.
It's you...
or nothing.
As a problematic man appropriating a queer poet once said:
"The heart wants what it wants."
Love chooses us.
The only thing we can control is what we do,
how far we go.
In Ted Chiang's story "Hell is the Absence of God,"
Neil Fisk loses the love of his life.
She was good. She's in heaven.
So the only way he'll feel her love again
is if he goes to heaven too.
But he's not exactly a guy who'd get into heaven.
So he's gotta find a path to redemption.
I'm sorry, but no.
I just think the entire premise of the story is just pants.
I disagree.
It made a few nearly profound points for a work of fantasy.
-Meaning what? -Come on, that stuff's barely literature.
Not that it shouldn't be on the syllabus. Americans do write heaps of it.
Can't argue with you there.
The course is American Iconoclasts of the Short Story.
Dean was probably picturing more Hemingway but, hey, I was a last-minute hire.
Nadia, you said "pants."
Mm-hm, yeah, I did, to great controversy.
Explain "pants" to the American, please.
It's crap, rubbish, not good.
There are tricks to being a professor, like this:
-Say more. -It's not redemption
-if it's for selfish reasons. -Does it matter if he's doing good?
Chiang isn't actually saying the highest redemption is doing good.
He's saying it's just love.
Most of my professor tricks are one trick
I picked up spending time with a girl named Ellie.
Wind them up, let them go. Teenagers will argue for you.
Yes, the word "love" is used to mean something deeper.
Like full civilizations, religions, all of literature.
-Hyperbole. -These two will kill each other
or get married by the end of term.
Spoken like somebody that's never felt love. How would you know?
Okay, all right, let's pause, table this one.
Everybody read "The Tell-Tale Heart"
and be ready to discuss where Poe lands on what love is.
All right? That's all for today.
-Um, Professor Moore. -Still getting used to that.
-Question? -No. But yes.
Why do you keep assigning stuff like Ted Chiang
instead of all the, you know, usual canonical, vaguely racist men that drink?
The people who decided what's important were wrong.
The ones who assign those writers are lazy and this is my class.
Okay, I underestimated you.
It's the accent, isn't it? Sorry.
-I'm good at professor-ing. -What you got?
Oh, um... Rhys Montrose.
What? Is he not a thing in America?
Well, everyone here wants him to run for mayor of London
and ultimately save England from itself.
But I guess the bar's so low,
calling out hypocrisy at the most elementary level
makes you Jesus Christ in a peacoat.
Read it. You'll probably like it.
Brits are the most literary people on Earth.
They really read here.
I don't just mean "buy." Read. Cover to cover.
And look at the respect.
May not own a hairbrush, but does she dog-ear a page?
If L.A. was purgatory and suburbia was hell,
London may be when I finally got to the good place.
I still miss you, Marienne. So much.
But this feels like the European holiday I desperately needed.
Laying low is imperative.
I needed cash, but teaching's fun and London's not so bad.
A city of art, theater, books.
Jonathan!
And the occasional douchebag.
-The American! -This guy.
-Professor Harding, hello. -Malcolm, please!
So when are you letting me
-show you the real city? -Never.
-Soon. -How's the flat?
It's lovely, thank you.
Ran into him after my job interview. It was 2:00 and he may have been drunk.
-Chuffed you're looking after the place. -Yeah, very grateful again, so thank you.
Shit. You know what, I've got office hours, I think.
Yeah, no, no, no. Go, go, go. Rouse young minds and etcetera.
Perks of the job, rumor has it. I wouldn't possibly know.
I bet.
-We'll get those drinks. -I'd rather drink paint.
Campus is across town from where I stay, but in a city like London,
I don't mind the walk.
I guess you could say it keeps me young.
I'm not sure when Gen Z became actual adults, but honestly, I like it.
This is what cities are for. They make you work to keep up.
In certain fundamental ways,
all big cities seem the same.
Insufferable hipsters are apparently universal,
as are the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.
And they start drinking early. Pub time and weekends are sacred.
My first thought when I saw my neighborhood was:
I'm in a Hugh Grant movie.
Don't get me wrong, no Notting Hill romance for me,
or to be precise, South Kensington, but I can't deny the energy here is nice.
Quiet. Okay, sleepy.
Which is good.
Perfect, even.
I've had a lot of time to think, Marienne, walking around London.
Like a poet once said,
"Heartbreak is our greatest teacher, and if so,
thank you for making me wise."
All I can say is never again.
No love.
No people.
Just books.
I love this place.
Charm, built-in bookcases,
a fireplace in every corner.
All due respect, Williamsburg could never.
But it's what's happening out my back window across the alley
that is of my particular interest.
I don't think Malcolm knew about the view when he recommended this flat.
Technical term for him is "party monster."
And who is that?
Is she his girlfriend?
What kind of woman--? No. No.
I am not interested.
No people, not interested.
As a man named Mooney used to say, "Not my circus, not my monkeys."
I don't want to know.
The best way to stay out of people's business
is to know what that business is.
She mostly works.
He mostly plays.
Malcolm went to all the right schools, like his father and grandfather.
He'll never have to work a day in his life,
but he likes being an academic,
giving him an air of respectability that counteracts the assumption
that generations of wealth and inbreeding mean he's just not very smart.
Sadly, other professors mostly consider him a charming bag of hair.
Though rumor also holds remarkable in bed with above average--
You know what? My classroom is in the library.
I hear everything, whether I want to or not.
Now, how about her?
Kate Galvin.
Kate gives very little.
Her online presence is curated only for work.
Gallerist, art lover, never married, appears to be daughter of Greta Galvin,
a free-spirited '90s model who's now a spiritual stylist in Ibiza.
If I had to guess, she grew up her hippie mom's opposite.
Focused, ambitious, positively American work ethic.
Everything I've learned about Malcolm and Kate tells me I'm right.
I do not need to get to know them.
And while Malcolm is off getting smashed, she's, you guessed it, still working.
What's got her so focused?
Okay, I don't think that's Art News Daily on her screen anymore.
Hello.
So does Malcolm leave her unsatisfied or did--? No, not watching.
Why does the universe keep doing this to me?
I'm not getting hooked.
She's not the first sexually frustrated woman
I've ever seen forget to pull the curtains.
I study to learn how they tick, so I can avoid the circus.
Nothing is going to stand between me and my European holiday.
But I do miss having someone out there.
Someone worth watching.
A puzzle worth solving.
You.
But missing you won't bring you back.
I thought it would count for something, how far I traveled.
All over France, the weeks, the months.
What I did for you.
I went to every artist haunt in Paris.
I visited them over and over.
I kept feeling...
I'd just missed you.
Weeks went by.
I never gave up.
I knew I was close
and fate finally rewarded me.
-May I? -Yeah, of course.
I love this artist.
Do you have any more of their work or an e-mail?
Oh, yeah, an e-mail.
Let me check.
She may take some time to get back to you.
She's in London to visit the Acanthus art fair.
An art fair.
London.
I knew where to find you.
Go fuck yourself, Malcolm.
Which I'm sure you'd love 'cause you're a total fucking narcissist.
Kate, come back!
You see? You thought we had issues.
I wonder-- No.
I'm not-- I'm not wondering.
Just so we're clear,
it's not following someone if you have to walk the same way home.
And...
They don't look friendly.
Grab her purse!
This can't be happening. I can't get involved.
Get off me! Get off me! Help! Help!
Fuck. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Get off!
Oh, my God.
-Let's go! Fuck it!
-Are you okay? -I fucking hated that watch.
I'll take that as a yes.
I should probably report it, in case they come back and attack a student.
Fuck my life!
Cops would not be good for me.
I'm sorry, it's a little awkward.
What? Just say it.
Can you maybe--? Don't mention me.
My work visa is shaky.
Damn it. I just had to do it, didn't I?
I had to go and save her.
She insisted on driving me home, not awkward.
We exchanged some pleasantries and I introduced myself as Jonathan Moore.
I still don't know if she mentioned me to the cops.
Tonight was a wake-up call.
From now on, no matter what, low profile.
And most of all, stay away from both of them.
John-Boy.
Can I call you John-Boy?
It's like how cats sense you're allergic and jump right in your lap.
Jesus.
You can see right in our flat.
Are you a Peeping Tom, John-Boy?
No hand shandies over my girl, do you hear? Any of my girls.
Yep, still hate this guy.
Thank you. For Kate.
Used to be a time when any trouble you found in London
was the trouble you went looking for.
Those little shits are everywhere now.
I have to feel bad for people so desperate they need to do that.
Desperate?
Scum from birth, you mean.
They target people like us 'cause they know that no one...
Something tells me he's about to explain how the rich are the real victims.
...hate the rich.
We're the real victims here.
You see, my family is practically royal.
Royal adjacent, anyway.
I think that was a humblebrag?
We built this country, and what thanks do we get for it?
Ah, yes. Definitely builder's hands.
But enough about the peasants.
My dear friend Adam Pratt recently opened Sundry House.
It's absurdly elitist, everyone is devastatingly smart,
and the mixologist is a bloody magician.
You'll come along with us tonight.
-Uh, no, I have a lot of reading-- -No, no, no. That wasn't a question.
You saved Kate's life.
I am repaying you.
We leave in half an hour.
And I continue to do great at staying away from these people.
Adam Pratt's Sundry House is the most exclusive club in Soho.
A hideaway for London's unfathomably fortunate and privileged.
No photos, please.
What is all that for?
-Mal? Kate! -Over here!
Oh, my God, you look stunning.
I'm blinded. I've died.
Phoebe, Lady Borehall-Blaxworth.
I know.
Of course, I researched before I got here.
Lady Phoebe. Kate's most famous friend.
Toxically aristocratic,
quintessentially blonde,
dated the captain of not one but two Premier League teams
at the same time.
Every blunder and bikini wax documented by the tabloids since she was 15.
And yet, always gives the impression of being genuinely sweet and kind.
Could that possibly be true?
Who's this sad baby tarsier?
Come on, Phoebs let's get you inside before they eat you.
-Lovely. -Phoebe!
Oh, my God! What are you doing here?
So this what a £25,000-a-year membership will get you.
The gorgeous, the hip and the spoiled wearing real fur
to drink in Instagram-friendly lighting.
It even smells rich in here.
If a bomb dropped on this place,
Britain's GDP would drop by 10%, but it might be worth it.
-Jonathan! -Let the games begin.
Which one of these people will I hate the most?
Darling, this is Jonathan Moore. He's American.
-Nice to meet you. -Hi.
Blessing is a Nigerian princess.
Blessing Bosede.
Princesses grow on trees at Sundry House.
She's in tech. All of her business plans feel more like pyramid schemes.
All that and a snob.
Soz, not soz for interrupting. This way.
Oh, good, more introductions.
How do you feel about art, John-Boy?
I like it.
Well, then, this is Simon Soo.
I'm sure Simon Soo's record-breaking art sales
have nothing to do with his dad being a billionaire.
Simon painstakingly cultivates a tortured artist persona,
as though he's ever suffered worse than a paper cut
that Daddy's money bandaged immediately.
Simon, this is Jonathan Moore.
I have too many friends.
Come back when one is dead.
-Ouch. -Simon, sweetie,
don't be a cunt.
This is Sophie, Simon's sister.
Sophie Soo.
Every item on her body is a sponsorship deal.
It's so greedy, I'm almost impressed.
Sophie went to Oxford, then Harvard Law, but while studying for the bar in Mykonos,
realized making a career on likes and follows requires a lot less reading.
Sophie is a jet-set influencer,
a job comprised of posting bikini photos
to inspire fat, council-estate plebeians.
Ruthless, capitalist, illusionary.
Almost sociopathic.
What?
I'm a fan, darling.
-Fuck off and die, Malcolm. -They don't like each other either.
Very nice to meet you...
Jonathan. Nice to meet you too, both of you.
Oh...
-American, are we? -Careful.
They all have guns.
I wish.
Facts about Malcolm.
Drinks like a fish, loves his own voice, has many friends, all terrible.
Oh, there are a few more contenders
in London's greatest douchebag competition.
Roald Walker Burton.
Mostly known for his boats, one-night stands,
and quote, "alarming knife collection."
Gemma Graham-Greene managed to disparage Americans, trans people, the poor and Jews
in a single sentence while doing a shot of Patrón.
Connie something, all they told me is he's a lunatic and owns horses.
I'm not sure any of these people even like each other.
They're just so obscenely rich, it's like a mandatory club.
I'll be right back with those treats.
With Malcolm off to score some drugs, I have a moment to breathe.
-Jonathan? -Or not.
This ridiculous beast is Adam, my boyfriend.
Potential marriage material. But the jury's still out.
Don't worry. I'll bribe the jury.
An American.
Let's see if you can compete with the Brits.
Adam Pratt, owner of Sundry House.
All of this is Daddy's money.
Built by a rich kid with no understanding of real work
to impress other rich kids with the same story.
And Jonathan Moore teaches literature with Mal. And he's American!
Wow. Moore. Moore, where's your family from?
All over.
Loving the whole off-the-rack vibe.
-What's your crypto? -Ding-a-ling. We have a winner.
No, wait, hold on. Let me guess.
No, this is about to turn into a bet.
Last time you lost your flat in Marrakech over a bloody shoe size.
Come, baby, let's mingle.
I have to go mingle, but I'll be back, Jonathan.
I crave the dulcet tones of a fellow countryman.
Don't hurry. Can I slip out now?
-Whoa, whoa, I will take you in five. -Oh, fuck.
Getting a cab is hopeless. Here.
Hydrate.
Inevitable that an hour later,
I'm drinking in the corner, waiting for fucking Malcolm.
What could possibly be that funny?
Rhys Montrose.
Everyone wants him to run for mayor of London.
What's he doing here?
Good book.
Oh, no. I sound drunk.
So you're the new one.
Mal unfailingly adopts you lads, back since the dormitory at...
Oxford, right. They were all there together.
The book is about how he was born into poverty,
raised by an unstable single mom, uncomfortably relatable,
and he was a mess, then found out he's the son of a duke,
cleaned up, went to Oxford,
and became the author of honestly one of the best memoirs I've ever read.
Quite a thing, that.
Tell no one your sordid life story for 30 years, then write it down,
suddenly millions know your every shame.
For what it's worth, I didn't find your book sordid.
Oh...
Fellow man with a shit childhood, then?
I see.
A true shit childhood.
Pleasure to meet you, brother in arms.
The thing about getting money when you had none,
you never really feel you have it.
-And all the people who always did-- -Another species.
Exactly.
I actually don't hate him yet.
They're dancing while the world burns.
Barely notice it's even burning.
Why would they?
Their weather's just right.
First real conversation I've had all night.
And with that, I'm off to Berlin to go on a morning show
to be very coy about whether I run for mayor.
You got my vote.
See you around, Jonathan.
And back to being alone in a den of douchebags.
Okay, enough waiting for Malcolm. It's time to go.
Oh, okay. Drunker than I thought.
Jonathan. Drink!
-You must. -Just let me go.
Oh, no. What was that?
Absinthe, baby.
The wallpaper's gonna start talking to you, sweetheart.
-Now, tell us, Jonathan. -Why are you here?
-Shit. -Did you kill someone?
I can always tell.
My cousin killed someone. On accident, of course.
It was just a homeless person. Which, God, if she did that now, she'd be canceled.
-Excuse me. -Or did someone hurt you?
Was it a woman? Is that what happened?
Did she break your heart?
Did you break my heart, Marienne?
When I followed you to the art fair in London, I felt you, Marienne.
You changed. The buttoned-up Madre Linda librarian was gone.
But it was you.
Note to self, never drink absinthe again.
So, what's making John-Boy so miserable, hm?
The pompous clown calling me John-Boy.
Everyone thinks it's love.
So did you let her go,
-or did she get away? -What's it matter?
I followed a woman to Paris.
It's the most romantic city in the world.
And then she broke my heart.
-Then she wasn't the one. -We were perfect together.
My ex-wife told her things about me.
That. That, the burden of our decade.
Women believing women,
like they don't lie and cheat and fuck.
-They do it more than us. -She wasn't like that.
Let me tell you something as a friend.
You're embarrassing yourself,
sitting here all loved up over some silly whore
who couldn't give two shits about you.
She's already riding the next cock as we speak, so move on.
Fuck the pain away. There are plenty of whores in Soho.
If I could move, I'd kill this guy.
Sweetie, you need more absinthe.
Oh, no, no, no. Don't. You'll annihilate him.
Nothing matters without you anyway.
Whoa...
And not good.
-Did he tell you? He's royal adjacent. -What the fuck?
How did I get here?
What is she talking about?
...dated both Middletons. Malcolm is a liar.
Excuse me.
Get me off this ride.
Did I make her cry? What did I do?
I'm in hell. Where's my phone?
-Fuck. -Time to get this one home.
Well, I made it home, at least.
Do you see what trying to forget you has done to me, Marienne?
Whose coat is this?
Easy does it. Time to get this one home.
Couch, couch, couch.
Malcolm got me home.
Do I need to thank him?
No. If I'm rude, maybe the misogynist with the drug problem will leave me alone.
New day. No more craziness.
Back to the quiet.
Malcolm.
Scum from birth, you mean.
Sitting here all loved up over some stupid whore.
Wait. Did I...?
I ran away from all this.
I never wanted to touch a bloody knife again.
He was saying horrible things about you.
I was angry for you.
Somehow that just makes it worse.
So much for Malcolm tweeting that he's gone to Bermuda.
What the...?
Where would I put a finger?
She reported him missing already?
No. They must be here to take her statement about the mugging.
She's telling them all about me.
Any sec, they'll knock on the door to find a suspicious human-sized rug.
I could run into them on their way out, carrying a human-sized rug.
New plan, hurry up.
Fuck, he's heavy.
Fuck this fucking carpet.
Fuck my life.
The classics professor did tell me I could use his car in an emergency.
Okay.
I've got till dark to figure out what the hell to do with him
and mentally prepare to drive on the wrong side of the road.
Is this is what you saw when you looked at me, Marienne?
-I didn't want you to be right. -Excuse me.
Marienne!
Now can we please talk?
Stop.
-I'm not gonna hurt you. -You're right, you're not.
I will use this.
I'm sorry.
I thought you'd be happy to see me.
I thought you loved me.
I did.
Well, I'm right here.
-And I know a lot has happened-- -No.
No.
Juliette's in Paris.
With a friend.
She expects me home tomorrow.
If I could make it home to my daughter...?
Why would you ask me that?
You killed Ryan!
He took your child!
And your wife?!
If you're standing here, Love didn't kill you.
You killed her, didn't you?
Tell me there haven't been more.
Oh, my God.
You act like it's not true.
Like you're just a good man who did a bad thing.
You're a murderer, Joe.
You're wrong about me.
I wish. I wish I was, but--
You know what? I'm gonna prove it to you.
Goodbye, Marienne.
You looked at me with so much fear.
I couldn't stand it.
I let you go to prove to you I'm not that man.
I would never hurt you.
Just a stranger in a strange land
looking for someplace remote to dispose of Malcolm.
A sawmill sounds promising. Here's hoping it's closed.
If I get caught with this blowhard, it would be poetic justice.
Luckily, they have many of the same common workshop tools here
as they do back in the States.
Yeah, got a score on Putnam.
Sneaking out to the pub now for the second half.
Looks like I have half a soccer game to do this.
Yes, I know that's not what they call it.
A Prince Albert. He wasn't lying about being royal adjacent.
I thought I left this behind with a meat grinder and an oven.
Goal!
A drive around the Greater London area to dump body parts in sewage pipes
and the River Thames is not how I planned to sightsee.
So much for Jonathan doing better.
Not that I planned to become Jonathan
after I let you go.
My only plan was to drown my heartache and get the hell out of London.
Joe Quinn Goldberg.
Thought you'd be more, um, I don't know...
dead?
But then my past caught up.
Elliot Tannenberg.
You know my employer, Ray Quinn, your former father-in-law.
So are you here to take me back?
No, kill you.
Thank you.
Yeah, long day.
Then Elliot surprised me.
If I'm honest...
I'm tired.
What I'd like is to...
is be done, you know?
Not hurt anyone anymore.
Not even you.
-Oh. -Mm-hm.
But that would be complicated.
-In what way? -It would cost more than Ray pays.
Like all the money Love had in that one account.
You might not know she had that.
Might just be a complete coincidence that it got emptied out
the very same day you were baked in a pie.
So extortion?
Kind of a pejorative way to talk about me offering to help you.
This is for you.
You look like a Jonathan.
He's solid, went to Columbia, good credit score, work visa.
You should be able to get any job you want.
You just keep a low profile, don't get into any shit.
Just disappear.
Be Jonathan.
I'll assure Ray you're dead and then fuck off into the sunset.
Jonathan could be your chance too, to make some different choices.
Last thing, the girl that you follow, Marienne Bellamy?
She knows you're alive.
So look.
She's on the 8 a.m. train, to Paris.
-Unless you stop her. -But you just said this is...
my opportunity to make different choices.
Neither of us wanna hurt anybody.
Yeah.
So...
go on there, take care of it, walk out Jonathan Moore.
Text me when it's done.
And I was alone in a strange city.
Just me and my broken heart.
I don't know what I was thinking when I killed Malcolm. It's all black.
-I just know I failed.
You were right, Marienne.
Hi. I think this belongs to Adam Pratt.
-Sure. I'll leave it for him. -Yeah. Thank you.
Hey. Hi. You're back from Berlin already.
You're in Europe now, Jonathan.
You can get anywhere you want in three hours.
How did the night turn out?
Ah...
They're party animals.
Things tend to get out of hand.
I wouldn't beat yourself up if you made some sort of cock-up.
You know, the day that you decided to try to go to Oxford,
you called it becoming newborn.
Most people refer to that part of the book
as when Mum died while I was in prison for a bar fight.
"Heartbreak is always the catalyst for a new path," as you wrote.
And this is yours?
It was supposed to be.
Honestly, I really need it to be.
But you fucked up.
Very, very badly, yeah.
Would it help you to know that that part of the book is a lie?
I had that prison epiphany three separate times.
I kept turning around, getting trollied, and punching people again.
In my defense, writing it that way would have been hopelessly redundant.
I get a sense about you.
What's that?
All jokes aside,
my guess is that you have had a truly hellish life.
The kind that not everyone survives.
Am I close?
-Yeah. -So you're fairly deeply damaged.
Therefore, you're capable of doing real damage.
I feel like I'm supposed to be defensive right now, but I'm...
I'm not.
Who would I be to judge you?
Okay. So, what now?
Can't erase any of it, so now I just try to do
a bit of good moving forward, just something,
which includes protecting the people that I love,
getting some actual shit done for the city of London.
So you believe it's possible?
Redemption?
I think yes.
As long as they commit to never run from themselves.
Face it all, no matter what.
Easy, right?
-You think I'm full of it. -I think you're a writer.
You gonna sit here, perseverating on that cock-up?
Embrace everything, Jonathan.
The hangover's easier.
Sounds great.
But there are things I've done that I don't know if I can ever embrace.
Passengers continuing on to Nice, Cannes and Marseille,
please ensure that you travel in one of the rear compartments.
Thank you.
Excuse me. Sorry.
-Let me help you. -Thank you.
You thought it was a pickpocket, but it was me saving you.
I was putting you on that train.
I let you go.
To show you I'm not what you think.
I'm not a killer.
To try to make that true.
But it wasn't. And, of course.
Oh...
Good. Perfect, you.
Are you surprised I can read? Why are you staring at them?
-I'm curious what you like. -They're for work.
Feel free to deduce I like art, Mr. Holmes.
Uh--
You left Sundry House with Malcolm, the other night, didn't you?
Have you seen him today? He wasn't in his office.
No. No, I haven't. Please thank him for me
-for helping me into my apartment. I was-- -Pissed. Yes, we all saw.
He must be at the house in Surrey, writing poetry.
Not a poetry fan. Okay, noted.
I actually did need to ask you something important.
-This can't be good. -Come to dinner tonight.
-Wait, what? -A little soiree for Simon.
Well, I can't. I have papers to grade.
Oh, God, you Americans and your fetish for work.
This is England. We have dinner here.
Phoebe insisted I invited you.
I don't know what you said to her, but she's obsessed with you.
Don't know either, but--
Oi! Where did you go?
You've been summoned, so--
Americans don't do very well with summoning either.
Fine. Please come for dinner.
Oh, God. Look, trust is earned.
And when it comes to randos sniffing around my friends,
maybe you do want nothing, but I won't pretend it isn't suspect.
And not only do I not care if you think I'm a bitch,
I hugely prefer it.
Am I horrified or impressed?
So just say yes, or Phoebe will cry,
and I'll make sure it's in front of the paparazzi,
and all of London will know
-and revile your face. -Checkmate.
-Well then, I'd love to come. -Love? That escalated quickly.
Oh, and we're even.
For my life.
I told the police I didn't see who saved me.
Though I sensed his work papers were in perfect order.
You're welcome.
Professor Moore. A pleasure to have you with us again.
The private event is in the Paris social room.
Go in, act normal, so I'm not the guy who hung out one night
that they'll realize happens to be the night Malcolm disappeared.
Evanesce? I know this app.
It's one of those high security chat apps that erases everything you say.
How did I get this on my phone?
"Hello, you"? Who is this?
"You surprised me, handling Malcolm like that."
What the...?
"Here I thought when I left him on your table,
you'd go down for my sins."
-I didn't do it.
"You're not who I figured you for."
-"Who are you?"
Who am I?
Who are you?
Someone...
Moore. Where's your family from?
-...one of them... -And who's this sad baby tarsier?
-...killed Malcolm... -Come back when one is dead.
-Fuck off and die, Malcolm. -...planned to put it on me.
-You kill someone? -What you are is your problem.
-And now... -Why are you here?
...they're texting me.
Who are you?
And what's your next move?