Peter Alan Tyler, the most wonderful man in the world. Born 15th of September, 1954. Here, a successful businessman, holding a bottle of Vitex. Del Boy finally done good. Rose: "A parallel world and my dad's still alive." She moves toward the poster as though in a trance, as though by wishing you could make time itself stop, and the Doctor gets stern: "Don't look at it, Rose. Don't even think about it. This is not your world." Now, of all times, Rose can't afford to fall into fancy and strangeness, but it's too late: "But he's my dad, and..." She touches the poster and it springs to life. "Trust me on this!" it winks, and gives her a thumps up. "That's weird," she admits. "But he's real!" "Trust me on this," says the false image of Peter Tyler. Rose is over the moon: "He's a success! He was always planning these daft little schemes, health-food drinks and stuff. Everyone said they were useless, but he did it." The Doctor grabs Rose's shoulders and stares into her eyes: "Rose, if you've ever trusted me, then listen to me now." Her eyes drift back to Peter, the thing that should have been set straight. "Stop looking at it!" the Doctor orders Rose. "Your father's dead. He died when you were six months old. That is not your Pete. That is a Pete. For all we know, he's got his own Jackie; his own Rose. His own daughter who is someone else, but not you." Rose tries to stop herself looking back. But that's her sin, always; watch. "You can't see him," the Doctor tells her. "Not ever." She nods tinily, and Mickey touches her shoulder, knowing a fair something about loss and looking back; he's been doing it since time began, or at least the story of time. "Trust me on this. Trust me on this. Trust me on this. Trust me on this. Trust me on this."
PETE 1, plates on a posh car, pulling into a ridiculous mansion. Peter Tyler gets out, holding a bunch of flowers, and enters the house with them behind his back. "Sweetheart? Only me..." Jackie appears, looking rich and trashy, coming down the stairs shouting -- not cutely like our Jackie, but just like a gross bitch: "Oh, the bad penny. Was this your idea? Don't deny it, it's got your fingerprints all over it. 'Trust me on this,'" she says, with thumbs mocking. "Trust you all right. Trust you to cock it up." Peter asks what on Earth he's done now, and Jackie leads him into the next room. "HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY!" shouts the banner there. She stares up at it pointedly. "What's wrong with that?" Peter asks. Women in parallel universes are allowed to be clichés: "Forty! It says forty." But she is forty! Oh, women. They care about stupid shit, don't they? "I don't want the whole world telling, do I?" But she's having a birthday party, Peter protests. Tonight. "My thirty-ninth," says Jackie. "My official biography says I was born on the same day as Cuba Gooding Jr., and that makes me thirty-nine, thank you very much." She wanders out calling for "Rose," and he follows her with the flowers: "These are from the girls in the office. Happy birthday." Jackie turns up her nose. "I've got hand-sculpted arrangements by Veronica of Reykjavik, and your secretary stopped off at a garage? I don't think so. And if you're giving out presents, where's my zeppelin? Everyone else has got one!" As much as I love Jackie in our regular universe? That's how over this one I am. Not because she's gross, but because she's unlikely in the extreme. No woman is actually like this. She continues to shout for Rose, and then cocks her head at Pete, showing off her new EarPods. "Special delivery, got sent 'round today. Birthday present from Mr. Lumic. Latest model. Diamond-studded. Pick up signals from Venezuela!" Maybe people are like this, but I don't wish to know them. And why would Jackie want to pick up signals from Venezuela? "Well I don't know! But now I can find out! For God's sake, where is she? Rose? Oh, she needs a good bath before tonight, she's gonna be honking. Rose, come to mummy!" An awful little yippy Yorkie comes trotting up, and Jackie gathers "Rose" into her arms and cossets it, and then heads upstairs.