"Not really. He was going to schedule the appointments on the east coast, for when they happened to be passing through town, but if I was going to be out here anyway then it just saved some time."

They rarely have to name the actual specter between them. He and him. They both know exactly which bogeyman they're referring to. Sir Reginald Hargreeves, the Monocle, father, dad, sir. All that complicated Gordian knot that Luther still hasn't been able to hack his way out of.

"How, uh," he starts now, picking his way through the conversation and trying to find some way to redirect Allison's laser attention back onto herself, because he's realising that he squirms under her crosshairs these days, too-aware of the particular ghost haunting them and not wanting him to cast a long shadow over this precious, rare conversation:

"How's the new season going? For your show. It must be good, considering your— good news."

(Luther's not an expert at Hollywood but he is, at least, smart enough to not name outright what she'd whispered to him earlier. The cab driver's still there, could theoretically sell the scoop somewhere.)