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You must be
getting quite bored of these.

Never dull to discuss the work.

Okay, well I thought we
could just jump straight in

if that's okay with you?

- By all means.
- Okay.

Hello.

Liam Somer's story of a fading patriarch

presiding over a grief stricken
family has been described

as one of the most striking
debuts of the year.

Here with us to discuss his
first novel is the author.

Thank you for joining us, Liam.

Thanks for having me.

So I
thought we could start off by

touching on the
inspiration behind the novel.

What exactly is it that
drew you to tell this story?

Hello?

Liam, it's
Happy from the agency.

I'm on my way to a lesson. Can it wait?

We canceled that.

Something's come in for you.

Writers tend to say
they're a morning person

or an evening kind of writer.

I don't subscribe to that.

If you're writing, you are writing.

Simple as that.

It's not something that can be deferred

or denied if you have to do it,

which by the way is the
prerequisite for writing.

You don't have a choice in the matter.

You must write.

Listen, if I knew where
the ideas came from,

I'd have written

and indeed been paid a hell
of a lot more than I have.

Bearing in mind that I'd been
prolific and not badly off.

The short answer is, I don't know.

I know writers who obsess.

How do I say something original?

Am I saying something unique?

I'm sorry, there are no new ideas.

Most writers are reconciled to the fact

and if they're not, they pretty
soon will be.

Now, average writers attempt originality.

They fail universally.

Good writers have the sense
to borrow from their betters.

But the greats, great writers steal.

Good morning.

Good morning, Mr. Somers.

It's Liam.

If you'd like to follow me this way, please.

You'll find him just there.

I'll take that, shall we?

Thank you.

Hello, I'm Liam.

You must be Bertie.

You've done your homework.

Are your parents around?

They're up at the house.

Why?

I usually speak to parents
before the first lesson.

It's fine.

No, I can get my father if you want.

I'm sure he won't mind.

No, I don't wanna disturb.

But you want to meet him, right?

- It's fine.
- He's only writing.

No, it's fine.

Okay.

So what are we working on?

We are working on tragedy.

Modern, ancient?

I don't need you to turn the pages.

Congratulations, by the way.

English literature is one of
the most competitive courses.

Oh lord don't shortlist many candidates,

so your aptitude tests must
have been very impressive.

But that test is one thing.

The interviews, the college specific tests,

they're different.

You'll need to cultivate the
kind of critical thinking

that might not be familiar to you yet.

Kind of a house style.

They staple at Oxford, don't they?

You can do it in the house style.

- Bonjour, maman.
- Bonjour, ma cherie. Ça va?

Liam?

Mrs. Sinclair.

Helene.

Thanks for coming on such short notice.

Your CV was impressive.

Your agency speaks very highly of you.

That's kind of them.

Well, I should hope not.

I should hope it's true.

You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Sinclair.

Thank you.

Summer suits it.

This is the reading room.

It's usually only me in here.

We don't use the front entrance much.

There is a back door to the garden.

This is beautiful.

Thank you.

You made it?

It's kind of numinous.

And you've met Ellis.

You're laying the table for four tonight.

Yes, ma'am.

Any dietary requirements, Mr. Somers?

Actually, I'm vegan.

Wonderful.

And this is my favorite acquisition.

I bought it from the artist
when she didn't win the Turner.

Kind of a consolation.

She's a collector's darling
now, of course, but I found her.

It's adapted from Bernini's
Apollo and Daphne.

Do you know it?

I know the story.

Never had the heart to sell it.

Why would you?

That's my job. I'm a curator.

Shouldn't really get sentimental.

Something to drink?

You'd like a beer, wouldn't you?

You know Liam graduated
with a first in English.

So why is he a tutor?

Well, it must be a vocation.

He wants to share his
knowledge, his experience.

We thought it best.

Bertie spent the last
of the summer term here

so he can focus on his entrance exams.

You thought it best.

Well, that school's let you down enough.

I wasn't going to leave this up to chance.

You must be good.

Evening all.

Bonsoir, my love.

How goes it, Bert?

Liam, isn't it?

Yes, Mr. Sinclair.

Oh, thank you.

You've come on a good day.

Ellis does a mean roast lamb.

Thank you.

Music.

We heard Rachmaninoff yesterday.

Oh, give me three good reasons

not to listen to him today
and I'll change my mind.

Why don't we ask our guest?

Liam, what do you think of
Rachmaninoff?

Um, he was the last great
Russian romantic composer

um, known for his piano concertos

more than his symphonies.

His... he was the conductor
of the Bolshoi

when the Russian, first
Russian revolution began.

The music, she meant what
did you think of the music?

I don't.

I'm not familiar.

Rachmaninoff it is then.

Last Great Russian romantic.

So what did you two study today?

Hamlet for the most part.

Oh, you looked into the
manuscript edition yet?

I've got a few articles.

I can make up a reading list.

Thanks.

You can thank him when you get in.

If, if you get in.

We should have a chat about
the lesson, see how it went.

I'm sure Bertie has some...

I'm sure he does,

which is why we'll discuss it after dinner.

You can wait in the drawing room
when you're finished eating.

Liam.

You're out.

We'd like you to stay.

Is this from the agency?

I think we can part ways
with the agency here.

We prefer a personal bond.

There have been incidents in the past.

With guests?

With staff.

We told them we no longer need a tutor.

Didn't wanna compromise your
relationship.

It's so important Bertie
has someone on his side

that knows the English system.

I studied in Paris and New York

and his father didn't go, of course.

Non-disclosure.

He's very protective.

Getting close to the end so he tells me.

Yes, five years since the last one.

The subject of your thesis?

It's on your CV.

You'll report to me at
the end of every lesson

about Bertie's progress.

Come and find me.

He has to get in, Liam.

He doesn't know about the
thesis, does he, Mr. Sinclair?

I'm sure he'd be flattered,
but you're not here for him.

Good morning.

From fairest creatures we desire
increase.

That thereby beauty's
rose might never die,

but as the riper should by time decease,

his tender heir might bear his memory.

So you're onto the sonnets.

So you've learnt a poem.

I just remember.

Have you got
a photographic memory?

Not quite.

Words are like triggers for me.

They set off a sequence,

so if I've read them, I'll remember.

You don't know.

You can try me.

To be or not to be.

You can do better than that.

Nativity once in the main
of light, crawls to maturity

wherewith being crowned crooked

eclipses against his glory fight

and time doth gave doth
now his gift confound.

Time doth transfixed...

All right, you've got a party trick.

I, I get it.

I'm sure it helped you get your first

but I can't use it and I don't need it,

so why don't you fetch
me that reading list.

Should I write it down
so you don't forget?

How did it go?

Well.

Independent research mainly.

Is that your usual practice?

It varies.

For a student at Bertie's intelligence,

I say independence is a good thing.

You're the best resource he could have.

He needs to be making use of you,

otherwise, why are you here?

I'll make sure he does.

Good.

That's Tchaikovsky, isn't it?

"June from the Seasons."

I thought you weren't
familiar with classical.

I'm learning.

Me too. Trying.

Are you the only one who plays?

Bertie used to beautifully.

His brother wrote mostly
short stories like you.

He took after his father.

He likes to have someone around.

But now I'm a nuisance.

Used to be me at the start.

We don't talk about his work,
we don't talk about Felix.

Follow those rules and you
should be fine.

Of course.

Great writers steal.

But do you think it's inevitable

that elements of your personal
life seep into your work?

You're somebody who has experienced

great personal tragedy

and I'm wondering if the loss of your son

has had a direct impact on
the nature of your writing.

If I were drawing on my life,

I'd be writing memoir, not fiction.

But if you're asking if it
has affected my writing,

the answer is yes.

In as much as any loss affects one's life.

Losing a child is losing a part of oneself,

and bound up with the
grief is a profound sense

of injustice, of being robbed.

And when they take their own life,

one is compelled to the unthinkable.

To grieve the child is to grieve the killer.

But if you're asking me seriously

and I sincerely hope that you are not,

whether my son's death
has inspired my writing,

the answer is no.

I will not be writing about his death,

I will be writing in spite of it.

And you will have your
novel when it is ready.

Mr. Sinclair!

Mr. Sinclair.

Liam, just family tonight.

There will be fixings in the guest house.

Sure. See you tomorrow.

Three, four. Close the door.

Five, six. Pick up sticks.

Oh, good morning, Mr. Somers.

Something I can help you with?

Yes, we've run out of coffee in my place.

Can't have that.

- I'll put a pot on now.
- Thanks.

Just getting us some coffee.

I'm glad you're making yourself useful.

Fucking hell!

Everything okay, Mr. Sinclair?

Don't you have a lesson?

Bertie's just setting up.

The printer.

What are you trying to do?

Print something.

Do you mind?

The printer's the problem.

Nothing to do with that thing.

My dad worked in IT.

Oh, sins of the father.

Yeah, I know a bit.

Thanks.

That's Winterson.

I beg your pardon?

Empty space and points of
light, Jeanette Winterson.

Final words of "Sexing the Cherry."

And even the most solid of things,

and the most real,

the best loved and the well known

are only hand shadows on the wall,

empty space, and points of light.

Good spot.

Is it research?

Close the door on your way out, will you?

Mustn't keep Bert waiting.

Hope you like it strong, Mr. Somers.

Thank you.

It's Liam.

I know.

It might be useful if I could read some

of what you're writing.

Useful for who?

No, Liam.

Can't touch the buds.

Why not?

It's rhododendron.

Have you never been in a garden
before?

Not everyone has gardens like this.

It's poisonous.

There's toxins in the sap.

Do you want one?

All right.

Cheers.

It's basically a weed.

Nothing can grow around it.

The roots, they are, they
strangle everything they touch.

It's quite clever actually.

Felix was obsessed with them.

Rhododendron, the rose tree.

It's ancient Greek.

They are beautiful.

That's not why he
was obsessed with them.

No, no, no, no.

Shit!

Ah, Mr. Somers,

there's been a slight
delay to your laundry.

I have brought you a
fresh change of clothes.

I'll just put them down
here, if that's all right.

Sure.

- Oh, I can do that.
- No, no, no.

It's quite all right, Mr. Somers.

You are expected at dinner.

Liam. So sorry.

We should have warned you.

The power tends to go down in a storm.

The price of isolation.

And there was.

Any objections to Beethoven?

You boys didn't lose
anything in the storm, did you?

I didn't.

We're making great progress, I think.

Oh, in that case, I may need
to borrow you this evening.

Computer's playing up again.

You don't mind, do you, Liam?

That's fine.

I have tomorrow's lesson planned.

Good.

You know Liam's a writer too?

Hmm?

Did you show Bertie your student
pieces?

No, no. I've seen the novel.

"Tower 24," the working title.

It's actually quite good.

Reads like a Sinclair.

That's why the desk lamp
is burning into the night.

I haven't worked on it in a long time.

It's not finished.

Then why does Bertie have it?

Thanks.

- Come and see me after dinner.
- You know where I am.

They suit you. Felix's clothes.

This damn thing buckles in a storm,

and I need to know that my work is safe.

You've got multiple backups, right?

Oh, I used to have people do that for me.

- PAs, you know?
- But not anymore.

Oh, people like that can be very nosy.

You need to enter your password.

Okay.

I can run a backup to
the cloud if you want.

Absolutely not.

I don't give my work away for free.

Looks like there's
another server running.

Is it here?

Oh that? Oh, it's next door.

Used to be part of the
study, don't need the space.

You want me to shut it down?

No, keep it running. Just in case.

Okay.

Yeah, you should be
safe for the next storm.

Goodnight, Mr. Sinclair.

Well, that was quick.

Scotch?

Sit down.

If you're serious about doing this,

you must bear one thought
cheerfully in mind

whenever you put pen to paper.

Whenever you read, eat,
drink, fuck, whatever,

one thought, one simple one.

Good writers borrow.

Great writers steal.

Don't tell me you're a fan.

There is a new novel.

Started a while back,
almost over the line.

I was wondering if you might be

on hand for the final stretch.

Keep the story safe.

Provide some amusement,

I found in the past that
can be really useful.

Someone separate from work.

You know, not a writer,
preferably, well, not a real one.

So easy to forget.

It's only really a game.

Oh, don't want to distract
from Bert's studies.

No, no you wouldn't.

And I'd pay, of course.

Take it you're in?

We'll make a thief of you yet.

What's it called?

"Rose Tree."

What do you think?

I love it.

What did you two talk about?

Liam, I won't tell.

Oh. Hello. You lost?

Ah, the missing mother.

What are we discussing?

Bertie, how he's doing.

Of course, the boy wonder.

It's going to be another late
one, I'm afraid, my love.

Pay me a visit, won't you?

Of course, darling.

Friends, family,
there must be sacrifice.

When you embark upon a novel

and begin that communion
with yourself, you are alone.

Armed only with your craft
and hopefully, your talent.

What's that?

It's an essay of yours.

This is good, Bertie.

I'd love to have thought of this.

Your reading list helped.

How can I make it better?

And in your conclusion,

you might want to consider
Shakespeare's familiarity

with Hippolytus.

I didn't know that you were allowed

to make connections like that.

You know, between texts, across genres.

It's like a whole different thing.

Sorry, but there are no new ideas.

To our Alexander and our Aristotle.

Most writers are reconciled
to the fact, and if they're not,

they very soon will be.

Oh, Liam.

Give that the once over, will you?

Yeah.

Flower-Gathering's my
favorite from A Boy's Will.

Are you dumb because you know
me not,

or dumb because you know?

Well spotted, come in.

Everything's fine.

You've still got that
server running next door.

Oh, forget that, it's dormant.

Well, I can just shut it down.

Leave it.

Your father teach you all that?

I learned. He didn't teach me.

I wager he's glad you didn't go into IT.

What are people saying about me?

People think you've retired.

You are amusing.

Have
you only just got out?

We're getting our
money's worth, aren't we?

You and Bertie seem to be getting along.

This new arrangement

isn't drawing your focus
away from him, is it?

No, not at all.

What makes an ending?

That's what we've been talking about.

He's thinking of his own.

Have you seen it?

No.

But he's writing?

I think so.

I think he's close.

Calls me the missing mother.

'Cause I wasn't there when our son died.

I was in Venice, the Biennale.

I don't go anymore.

You're up late.

So are you.

You know you're not the first, right?

Get some sleep, Bertie.

Good night.

Night.

Say I die. Right here, right now.

Who owns my words?

I don't mean in a legal sense.

I mean, testament to experience.

Words I chose because I
believed they bore witness

to a truth beyond fiction.

Because, when strung together,

they accorded to a
music only I could hear,

resolved some conflict raging within me.

Who owns them?

They belong to whoever
chooses to read them.

And since we are the
words we write, so do we.

Finders fucking keepers!

Ah, only gods come out
of the machine, Liam.

Ghosts stay in them.

You've said that before.
In "Pearlescence."

Did I? Jesus,
I'm repeating myself now.

And from one of your lesser works.

You know, I don't even
remember half of that one.

First draft. Tad shorter than usual.

Thought you might like to proofread it.

Would that be a problem?

Not if you read mine.

All right. Drop it in
first thing tomorrow morning.

Dante, Tolstoy, Flaubert.

Not a single one of them read.

What the fuck did they even
teach you at that school?

May as well burn them.

You may as well be illiterate. Are you?

What your brother would have given

to read any of these works that
you shun.

At least he had the intellect to read mine.

Oh, Bert, come here.

It's me. It's me.

Morning.

Morning.

My novel.

"Tower 24." Longhand.

Like the best. Look forward to it.

Oh, take those, would you?

- I can't do this. He's right.
- Bertie...

I haven't read... I don't fucking...

I don't know enough. I've not
read enough.

I'm wasting my time.
I'm wasting your time.

It's just all a fucking waste!

Stop it, stop it. Hey, hey.

Stop it. Stop it.

Hey, listen to me. Look at me.

Take a breath. Take a breath.

Bertie. Bertie, look at me.

Just one breath. One breath.

It's all right. It's okay.

It's okay.

I won't let him bother you.

It's too late for that.

You can go if you want. I understand.

When you said I wasn't the
first, what did you mean?

I know I'm not the first tutor,

but that's not what you meant, is it?

My father likes keeping
his favorites close.

He moved Felix into the room
next to his, for fuck's sake.

I'm not Felix.

I know.

Take the day off, Bertie.

So you're not leaving?

No. I'm not going anywhere.

Good swim?

Yeah. Not as warm as it looks.

Don't do it again.

- I'm sorry?
- Lake's off limits,

for their sake.

It's only been two years since Felix.

They're a little delicate.

I'm sorry. I didn't know.

You do now.

I finished your novel, by the way.

Bring mine over tonight, we'll debrief.

I might need a little more time

to finish reading it.

You found time to swim.

Come in.

I've annotated the text
where I've spotted anything.

There's a cross-referenced
document on my laptop.

Very thorough.

Well, don't keep me in suspense.

It's like nothing
you've written before.

It was hard to read.

What... Why?

Because even if I started writing it,

even if I devoted my entire
life, I wouldn't come close.

I mean, the voice, the
rhythm, the cadences.

It just feels, it feels new.

I don't know how you've
done it, but you sound new.

It very well could be your masterpiece.

But, um, the ending. Part three?

Mmm-hmm.

It feels like a different novel.

Like it doesn't belong here.

The work just deserves better.
I had to tell you that.

Mmm.

You seem to have misunderstood, Liam.

We're not peers. You're a proofreader.

But as you've begun, we'll
suspend disbelief a while.

Your first novel. Something
of a misnomer, is it not?

How do you mean?

It's not a novel.

It's passable airport fiction.

I can see why you gave up on it.

Could be tweaked into a short
story, a novella at best.

I could easily pass it on to
my editor for a second opinion,

but I have a reputation.

Imagine, my publisher
wakes up one morning,

finds a message from me

claiming to have found
the next best thing.

"Tower 24." He'd think I'd cracked.

I can't put my name to just anything.

That's years of work.

Really? How frustrating.

Then again, I'll never get back

the hours I spent reading it.

We needn't waste any more time.

I'm sorry.

Oh, don't be. You weren't to know.

Oh, have you considered teaching?

This isn't about the writing.

Oh, it's only ever about the writing, Liam.

And I regret to say,

you cannot write.

Send me that document, would you?

I'll do it before I leave.

Ah! You're not finished yet.

You can find someone else.

Liam, you signed the agreement.

Great shame to break your bond now.

I so loathe dealing with lawyers.

I'm saving your life, Liam.

Fuck!

I thought you didn't
want to do public appearances.

Just dropping into the
conference, surprise them all.

Spontaneity, darling.

You remember that, don't you?

Ah! The tutor.

Did you want something?

I just wanted to say thank you.

I'm honored that you read my work.

Still waiting on that email.

I'll send it today.

Uh, no disclosure of my
work to any third party,

as per the agreement.

That includes Helene.

Liam, you're welcome.

You've been brought up

by the most revered writer in the country.

So, why should I give you a place?

Well, uh, he's a writer.

I want to be able to learn to read work.

You know, to learn to criticize.

How would you criticize your father?

I haven't read his work.

That's not what I asked.

I asked how you'd criticize your father.

Nothing can grow around him.

My father never raised us.

He just made us sick.

How?

Not caring is worse than cruelty.

What his son wanted was his approval,

and he couldn't give it.

- But don't you want it?
- No.

Look where that got Felix.

My brother didn't go
into the water to swim.

But you could.

I did.

Whoo!

Whoo-hoo!

I've been invited to an 18th tonight

and my mother is worried

that it's gonna distract me from our prep.

I'm not worried.

We've been working very hard.

You're sick to death of me,

and I think he could do
with a night out of here.

What would your father say?

He's not here.

Where are you gonna stay?

At the flat.

Well, get a cab if you need to, please.

Thank you.

Can I help?

Yes. Ah.

Thank you.

Have you thought
about letting Bertie

be somewhere else this summer?

Well, if Bertie's not here,

there's no reason for you to be.

I love it, too.

I didn't say that.

You didn't have to.

What did he do, Liam?
Did he destroy you, too?

What do you want now?

To do my job.

Help Bertie get out. And leave.

Don't lie. I think you
want the same thing I do.

And what's that?

Why does he lock my dead son's door

if he's got nothing to hide?

I wanna know.

Don't you?

Mr. Somers?

The usual?

Yes.

How are you feeling?

Like shit. And I can't find
that Bronte article anywhere.

Liam. I need you in the study.

- We're still working.
- Now.

So, where is everything?

- Fuck!
- What?

This looks like a virus.

It's, it's taken everything.

Restore it from the backup.

Well, you never
disconnected the drive.

It must have been running,
so it's gone down too.

The other server!

It's all,

It's all gone, Mr. Sinclair.

What?

I wanted to shut it down.

It's the malware.

It must have come from my computer

when I sent you the
documents, the annotations.

What?

I am so sorry.

So unlike you to be so careless, darling.

Especially when it's taken you so long.

But you've still got the hard copy.

Close that door.

He must have left it at the conference.

Yeah, it's J.M Sinclair.

Could you put me through to
the conference center please?

Yes, I'll hold.

You've already looked in there, darling.

Well, it's not at the conference.

It's not at the hotel, not
in the car, not in the house.

Someone has taken my novel.

Someone here has it,
which of you is it, mm?

Oh, you've taken it, haven't you?

Oh, tucked it away somewhere,
have you?

So neat and tidy.

Where have you hidden it, Bert?

We all know you're hiding something.

Where is it?

Where is it?

Where is it?

- That's enough.
- It had been overcast

all morning,

but when we were clear of the bay,

the sun split the cloud bank in two

and threw light onto the water.

Thin films of petrol swirling rainbows.

I was unsteady on my feet
as I approached the bow.

Someone grabbed my arm, stood me
upright.

I hadn't known how heavy
her ashes would be.

How much do you remember?

All of it.

Bertie, go get your things.

Now?

Now, sweetheart.

But you're leaving tomorrow.

I'm giving you the space
you need. No distractions.

Ellis, bring me my bags please.

He knows I didn't mean it.

- I need you here.
- You need to write the book.

I've written it.

Then it shouldn't be
too hard to remember.

Is Liam coming?

Just carry on like we've done.

You'll be ready.

Good luck, Bertie.

He'll never get in.

That's what you said about Felix.

That's my work.

That's the feeling.

I married a writer,

so write.

Boys and their mothers, Liam.

Bet you weren't pampered like that.

No.

Shall we?

We use this.

Won't need to back this fucker up.

This fucking place.

Are you waiting for something?

Good start.

Pick up tomorrow.

Night, Liam.

What was it?

How did it go?

- I remember.
- Oh.

But even from a distance,

I could read something
absent in her bearing.

Frailty perhaps.

I didn't write that.

It's the end of part two.

These moments rise up
before me like shards

of light in a shallow pool
never joined for long enough

to tell the storm.

I didn't write that.

You're changing my work.

- I'm not.
- Who's the fucking writer?

Right, end of part two.

Let's call it a night.

You know, the novel wasn't bad.

It wasn't bad.

She thinks I'm done.

We'll show her.

I'll show her, Felix.

Ellis, would you mind?

Welcome home.

We've been working.

So you're finished?

Not yet.

Better hurry up.

You need to get started on the next one.

Where's Bertie?

In London.

How is he?

He's fine. Preparing.

Darling, collect the bags
from the car, please.

Oh, sure.

Liam, can I see you in the studio please?

Why?

To extend our arrangement.

Those words, the ones you spoke.

They're not his, they're my son's.

Then why has it taken him
all this time to write?

It wasn't finished.

He gave it an ending.

And?

Hmm.

Then I'd like you to write one.

The shorter, the better.

Consider this your first commission.

How soon can you get this done?

I'll start it now.

Good.

Better get on with it.

- Return to normality!
- We missed you, my love.

Shall we have some music?

Of course.

Some Schubert for the homecoming.

Liam, you choose.

Oh.

We're getting close.

I call the publishers tomorrow.

Let them know it's on its way.

Well, I've already
been in touch with them,

and your editor.

Well, I'll speak to them.

No you won't. I'll deal with that.

No more distractions.

You just focus on finishing.

You deserve to.

You've been held back too long.

You don't mind if I deliver this, do you?

And then she walked along the
shoreline,

as far as I could see her
dress trailing in the...

- The...
- Wash.

Wash.

- The tide.
- The tide.

The waves took her footprints.

Footprints.

- I-
- I.

Followed after.

- The end.
- The end.

We did it.

It's done.

We fucking did it.

Oh!

Oh. Come on, come here.

You and I!

We finished that bastard.

Okay, this calls for a celebration.

All gone.

Ah.

Congratulations, Mr. Sinclair.

Cheers.

I called it "Rose Tree"
'cause I wrote it for him.

He was the only one,
only one, who understood.

I found him, you know,

not his mother, not Bert,

both had better things to do.

I dragged him outta that water.

Had a real talent, tried to help him,

constructive criticism like I gave you.

But he was weaker than I thought.

Depressive.

If I'd known he would've done
something that stupid,

I wouldn't have said

anything.

Right.

You, me, swim, right now.

No excuses.

Come on, Liam. Come on!

Exercise makes the day, Liam.

You coming in?

Of course.

Good man.

Now how, how, how, how do
you want to be credited?

How about author?

How's that?

It must have hurt you
when you saw "Rose Tree"

for the first time.

Of course, you wished it was yours.

I did too. He was better than both of us.

"Rose Tree" is mine. I wrote the book.

No, Felix wrote it.

You stole it, but I bet you
he came to you for advice,

and I bet you you crushed him.

He's my son.

I gave him every word of that novel,

and when he couldn't see it
through to the end, I did.

You know, I found the
original on his server

and I wiped it.

Yours too.

I threw the printout into the lake.

Helene knows.

That's why she asked me
to write it and finish it.

Because she knew you'd ruin that novel.

She begged me to save it from you.

You're no writer.

That's not what your wife thinks.

You don't fucking know her.

I know what she tastes like.

What?

You coward.

You fucking coward!

We'll get that seen to.

Get you some dry clothes.

Is he okay?

I've read them both, and you were right.

Yours is the superior ending.

His is a great shame.

You can get started now.

I wanna thank you for
everything you've done.

You were perfect, remarkable even.

This is how the story goes.

My husband, after
completing his latest novel,

drowned himself in the
lake where his son died.

We'd been worried about him
and his drinking for a while.

We did all we could to save
him, but it was too late.

What?

And you, Liam, you were never here.

You signed an NDA.

If you choose to break your agreement,

there is another story.

Two witnesses can testify
to the murder of my husband

by an obsessive fan.

A would-be writer that took a teaching job

so he could be close to his idol.

And who snapped when his
hero told him something

he didn't like.

I don't want any kind of
scandal, but if I have to,

I will make you the villain of this story.

This was never for Bertie.

I brought you here to get me the truth.

And when I knew, my husband
was always gonna join my son

in the water, "Rose Tree"
will be their legacy.

The ending.

I wrote the ending.

You have to give me that.

I wrote the fucking ending.

And I'm grateful. That's
why I'm giving you a chance.

I'm going to call an ambulance,

and I don't wanna have
to explain your presence

when it arrives.

Much better that you never existed at all.

My version of events is the only version.

You can see that.

You have talent, you just needed a story.

Tell Bertie

don't tell Bertie.

The gates will close behind you.

Hello.

Liam Somer's story of a
fading patriarch presiding

over a grief-stricken
family has been described

as one of the most striking
debuts of the year.

Here with us to discuss his
first novel is the author.

Thank you for joining us, Liam.

Thanks for having me.