A painting in the back of the church has mysteriously fallen off a wall, its crash echoing in the nave like a bucket of cold water pouring onto their heads out of nowhere. They want each other.Ī few seconds later, they’re standing up, hands are moving around, clothes are about to come off, there’s heavy breathing. He is a priest they are in a church, his church. He kneels down in front of her and touches her face. We don’t know what’s going to happen, but something between them has shifted: they’ve gone from confessor and priest, separated by a screen, to two equals. He pulls the curtain open on the confessor’s side. Off camera, he exits his side of the confessional. She’s confused - what did he just say? “Kneel.” He says it again. Just fucking tell me what to do, Father!”Īfter a bursting pause, he does. Fleabag is also in love with the Priest.Īfter some cursory confessions (I curse, I blaspheme, I have sex outside of marriage) and a few gentle encouragements from the Priest, the objects of her confessions switch from sins to desire: “I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because, so far, I think I’ve been getting it wrong.” She’s crying. Fleabag’s mother has recently died, and her best friend just accidentally committed suicide after her boyfriend broke up with her because he cheated on her with Fleabag. There’s a scene in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s television series Fleabag where her character, Fleabag, finds herself in a confession booth on one side of a thin scrim from a character we know only as the Priest.
Review of Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again: Women and Desire in the Age of Consent by Katherine Angel (Verso Books, 2021).
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