I almost knock into Andrew Scott before I see him. He’s just dashed out of the Tate Modern gallery in London, frantic and slightly late: “There’s just so many entrances!” he exclaims. His patrician forehead crinkles, and the brown eyes charmingly plead: forgive me! He was just inside, picking up his membership card. Surely he can get in for free? “Excuse me,” he huffs, “I’m a fully paid-up member.” Then he flashes the broad grin that seduced a legion of Fleabag viewers, and we’re off.
The plan today is to meander in a loop along the Thames. On a Friday in London, this involves much ducking through crowds, which suits Scott just fine. Except the rain-swollen river is now sloshing onto the pavement. We slow down to regard an underwater section of our route. “I don’t think we’re gonna get through there,” he says. “I’ve probably got a hole in my trainers.”
We head for the road instead, words pouring out of the 47-yearold actor in that mellifluous Irish lilt, peppered with “you knows” and interrupted frequently by his laugh. It’s no surprise that It was both actors’ Broadway debuts, though Scott has juggled screen and theatre from the start. “I’ve always done both,” he says, though he acknowledges modestly: “I used to do maybe a few plays a year and one television show. Now maybe it’s kind of the opposite.”
