We open on a ladies' toilet in a fashionable London nightclub, grunts and gasps coming from one of the cubicles as the door rattles on its hinges. Suddenly-
MAN'S VOICE: Uh- AHHHH! Oh, fuckin' hell...
The door opens to reveal Fleabag, hair mussed, shirt half-unbuttoned and lipstick smeared across her cheek. She gives a coy smile to camera before crossing to the mirror and touching-up her make-up. A bequiffed, cocky-looking young professional in a slim-fit suit emerges from the cubicle. He struts over to Fleabag, places his hands on her waist and kisses her neck.
MAN: That was, like, totally boss, yeah? Just boss. [Sings] Riiide the pu-naaa-ni!
FLEABAG: [To camera, grimacing] We didn't talk much. It was... more of an instinctual thing.
Cut to flashback, twenty minutes earlier: Fleabag standing at the bar, waiting to be served. The young professional wanders over and looks Fleabag up and down.
MAN: D'you want a drink?
FLEABAG: I'd rather have a fuck.
Cut back to present.
MAN: Did you say something?
FLEABAG: I said how about that drink?
MAN: Brewski Conan?
FLEABAG: Yeah, whatever.
He slaps her arse before heading back to the bar, pausing to click his tongue and wink at her on the way out. Fleabag's sister Claire suddenly appears in the doorway, almost bumping into him.
CLAIRE: [Indignant] Excuse me, this- [Then-] Fleabag-?
FLEABAG: [Surprised] Oh my God! Hi, Claire! He was just, erm...
CLAIRE: [Frowns] You didn't?
Fleabag bows her head, lets out an exasperated sigh and starts roughly combing her hair.
CLAIRE: Unbelievable. Why don't you just hang a sign around your neck saying 'Three Holes to Let'? You're sex mad!
FLEABAG: [To camera] I'm not obsessed with sex, I just can't stop thinking about it. It's like when you're walking down the street and there's a rogue pube tickling your fanny. You can't fish it out there and then because nothing screams 'I have no dignity or self-respect' like rummaging around in your knickers in the middle of Portland Place. So you accept it, make friends with it, and resign yourself to the fact that as long as there's a gash between your legs there'll always be something that wants to get inside it.
CLAIRE: Who are you talking to?
FLEABAG: ...No one. Just thinking out loud. Anyway, it's easy for you to criticise with your perfect life in your perfect house and your perfect husband with his perfect job. You don't know what it's like being an angry, confused, sexually voracious young woman trying to come to terms with the death of her best friend and business partner while simultaneously attempting to find herself in an era of fourth-wave feminism and identity politics.
CLAIRE: Maybe. But I do know a sweaty liaison in a West-End toilet isn't the answer. If Boo was here she'd say the same.
Cut to flashback, two years earlier: Fleabag and Boo sat in the café they run together, taking a coffee break.
BOO: So, what was he like?
FLEABAG: Like a bricklayer at the Apple Store. It still hurts sitting down. [Thinks] Does all this wild, care-free sex make me a bad feminist?
BOO: No, just a slapper.
They burst out laughing, covering their mouths in mock surprise at the edginess of this well-scripted retort. As they compose themselves, Fleabag reaches across the table and gently takes Boo's hand.
FLEABAG: I love you, Boo. You're the emotional centre of my crazy, unpredictable universe.
BOO: I love you, Fleabag. You're the kookiest, most well-crafted character I've ever met.
They gaze at each other with deep, sisterly affection when the sound of a flushing toilet suddenly punctures the scene. Cut back to the present. Claire exits one of the cubicles and washes her hands.
CLAIRE: Sorry, you froze up for a minute there. Listen, me and Martin are here with some old friends if you want to join us. It might help take your mind off things. [Smiles] And keep you out of trouble.
FLEABAG: Thank you.
They hug.
FLEABAG: I'll see you out there, okay?
Claire kisses her on the cheek and heads back to the bar. Fleabag returns to the cubicle and is about to close the door when she notices the toilet paper dispenser is empty.
FLEABAG: Shit.
She rummages around in her handbag, dropping a seemingly endless number of TCA, BAFTA and Emmy Awards as she goes. Finally, she pulls out a copy of Luke Jennings' Codename Villanelle, the title and author's name crossed out and replaced with 'Killing Eve' and 'Phoebe Waller-Bridge' in red biro. Half the pages have been torn out. She winks to camera as she closes the cubicle door.
