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If there is one thing Ted Lasso can’t stand, it’s insincerity. Lying is one thing. It's a very human thing even—something most people will do on occasion, to spare someone from a harsh truth, or because they feel trapped, or scared, or if they’re just a little too caught up in whatever they’ve got going on and forget to take others into account. Insincerity is different, and from the moment he meets Rupert Mannion, Ted can tell that the man is deeply insincere. The most infuriating thing is that Rupert doesn’t even seem to register that Ted can tell. From his fake laugh at Ted’s joke, to his faux apology directly following a deliberate insult, and most infuriatingly of all, the way he says “I believe you” without an ounce of belief in his voice. Or, as it turns out, the most infuriating thing is the way Rupert talks to Rebecca, commenting on her drinking and her clothes, seeming to make a sport out of getting her to doubt herself, preying on her every insecurity. Ted’s made a habit of trying to see the best in people before he looks for the worst, but he already genuinely hates this guy.
When Rupert tells him that Robbie Williams is an old pal, that he could get him to come over if he wanted to, the penny immediately drops, and Ted doesn’t really believe in violence, but he’d be damned if part of him doesn’t want to smack Rupert right in his little rat face. He pushes the thought away as soon as it arises, knows full well that acting on it won't do anybody any good. So he tries to think of Rebecca instead, thinks about how much putting this charity gala together has meant to her, thinks that he should at least try to ask her before calling out this insolent bastard on his crap.
He tracks her down outside the venue, but doesn’t know what to say when he does. She’s clearly upset but holding it in, her voice oddly distant as she talks about a passing bike cab. Ted hasn’t gotten the hang of the British climate yet, and the way the air gets cold as soon as it gets dark still unsettles him. He finds himself missing the warm air of summer evenings back in Kansas City. And maybe it’s the homesickness, or that dress she’s wearing, he’s not sure why, but standing there with Rebecca so close, he feels the need to bring up Michelle. So he does, his mouth running off, forming the words “my wife”, saying it out loud to confirm what the word represents. He almost tells her the anecdote about that stupid tandem vacation where he and Michelle had their first real fight. He never gets that far though, the hurt on Rebecca’s face stopping him in his tracks.
She tells him about Rupert, the control he had—still has, it would seem—over her. It makes Ted seethe to know what that man did to her, to his own wife. He knows about the cheating, of course—all of England seems to know—but what she’s describing is more than a series of lies. It’s abuse. He considers telling her, but from the way she’s talking, he suspects she’s well aware.
“I'm alone, Ted. Just like he said I would be if I left. I don't want to be alone.”
The urge to slap Rupert silly resurfaces, but that’s not what Rebecca needs right now. What she needs is to know that it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. So he tells her as much, hugs her tight and feels her almost crumble into the touch, making him half-forget that this is the same woman he met only a few months ago, who made a room full of rowdy reporters go quiet with just a couple of pointed remarks and a stare so cold you’d think she was about to insult Anne Hathaway for wearing a cerulean sweater. Since then, he’s made an effort to butter her up, but beyond her continuing to accept his offer to bring her biscuits, he hasn’t much felt like he’s succeeded in getting her hard exterior to soften—now he’s half-worried she’s gonna melt. He doesn’t know what else he can do for her, so he just holds on a little tighter, feels the heat from the bare skin on her back, and repeats himself, muttering “okay” into her ear.
A squeaking noise takes them out of the moment. It’s the bike cab driver from before (or is it bike cab biker? rickshaw chauffeur?), who has returned, beckoning them into his gaudily decorated, plastic-sheeted chariot. Something about it feels like a sign, and Ted is nothing if not a believer in signs.
“You wanna hop on this thing and get the heck outta dodge?” he asks her, and he means it too. His own sincerity scares him a little—they could just leave the benefit right now and not come back. “Come on.”
Rebecca just shakes her head. “I wish. Not right now. Thank you though.”
Her smile is faint but seems genuine, and he can’t help but think how lost she looks, shivering in the cold and holding tears back as best as she can. He deeply wishes there was something he could do to make it all okay — considers offering her his coat, realizing that that stupid dress she’s wearing doesn’t even cover her shoulders. Why had he told her to wear it? What on God’s green Earth had possessed him? He makes a mental note to be mindful of the cold London nights and suggest she wear something warmer next time.
When Rebecca asks whether Rupert will be doing do the auction, Ted confirms it, even if he can’t bring himself to tell her that he obstructed her big musical finish. That would be too much like twisting the knife, and Rebecca is wounded enough as it is.
“Good. I'm glad he's done that. We'll get much more money. No matter what he does, they just love him.” Her bitterness is palpable, and he shares in it wholeheartedly, but Ted appreciates that she can put it aside for the sake of the cause. There’s something admirable about her choice to do the selfless thing.
“You wanna head back in?”
“No, you go ahead. I need to freshen up. I probably look like Robert Smith after he's woken up from a nap.”
Ted can’t help but chuckle at that. It’s true that her mascara has run a bit, giving her a sort of a goth look, but truth be told, he doesn’t think she looks half bad.
“Very emotional man. Yeah.” He can’t remember the last time he thought about Robert Smith. Ted had been a latecomer to The Cure, sad British rock bands not exactly being overplayed on Kansas City radio, but all throughout college Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me had practically been glued to the cassette player in his car. He thinks of that song, “Just like Heaven”:
I promise that I'll run away with you.
He’d played it over and over until it had broken apart. The album had a mouth on the cover, he remembers, all red and plump, not unlike Rebecca’s with that lipstick on, shining the way it does in the light of the street lamps. She huffs a little laugh, too, and he’s glad to see her smile. He feels as if there’s something he should be saying, but words elude him, and instead he leaves her be, letting her work up the courage on her own to return to the lion’s den.
He can’t resist confronting Rupert the moment he gets inside, even though he knows full well it won’t solve a damn thing. Ted can’t help it—he wants him to know that he sees right through him. It feels good, triumphant even, standing up for Rebecca in his own small way, suggesting rather than declaring outright that he must have actively sabotaged his ex-wife’s event. When Rupert replies, “That would have made me a real piece of shit, wouldn’t it?”, Ted has to restrain himself from telling him exactly what he thinks about that.
He keeps his composure but thinks that perhaps it’s about time he got away from the gala for a bit and drags Higgins with him to search for his local troubadour. They find Cam Cole at one of the first places they look, drumming away and singing almost to himself in the half-empty street.
“Well, he’s certainly talented,” Higgings relents with a hesitancy in his voice that makes Ted think that this Robbie Williams fella really must be something special.
They walk back to the benefit, and Rebecca is back in the main hall, looking stylish as ever, make-up all put together again as if their last encounter had never happened. It takes a bit of convincing, but once Cam Cole gets on stage, she seems thankful for the last minute musical replacement. She doesn’t join the crowd, though, and he doesn’t either. Instead, they just stay on the sidelines, and with Rebecca at his side, looking out at the elated crowd jumping up and down, he feels a familiar rush—like he just won a game, like she just won it with him.
Before the venue closes for the night, Ted does the usual rounds, making sure none of his players have fallen asleep in the restroom (a habit he hasn’t been able to shake since that incident in 2016). He half expects Rebecca to have left by the time he’s ready to go, but she’s right there when he exits the building. He catches her staring at Rupert, who’s flirting with a woman half his age, and Ted tells her the only honest thing he can think to say: “You may think you’re the only one who can see who he really is, but you’re not.”
It’s not much, but it’s sincere, and while she doesn’t reply, he can tell from her smile that she appreciates it. Something deep in his gut flutters at sensing the relief emanating from her. Even though her mascara stays put this time, he keeps thinking of her joke about The Cure, that damn album, a line from the title track stuck in his head:
Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me.
He doesn’t let it linger, just mutters, “Fun night” in her direction, before running after Beard to catch up with him. On the walk home, he notices a voicemail from Michelle and listens immediately, telling Beard with a smile on his face that she’s finally coming to visit, that he’ll see his boy again. He wonders what he was doing when he missed her call. The whole way back, he can’t quite shake the earworm, just as he can’t quite shake the guilt slowly building in his stomach.
Get it out, get it out, get it out. Get your fucking voice out of my head.
Once he’s home in his apartment, he’s too wired to sleep and instinctively calls Michelle back, knowing full well that it's way past Henry’s bedtime, even accounting for the time difference. He desperately hopes that hearing her voice will be enough to quell whatever fires are building within him, even though part of him knows she won’t pick up. She doesn't. He does his best to quell them all the same.