Maureen immediately appears like a gothic mystery ghost and Serena tells her to get the fuck out. "You have no reason to be here!" she yells, because there is nothing ironic about Serena and she can't understand that of the two of them, she's the one that doesn't belong there. Maureen explains how Serena is going to be the Marilyn to her Jackie, and that she's agreeing to this because Trip cares about her, but all Serena can hear is that her truly fantastical imaginary life of "starting over" with a disgraced Congressman at eighteen years of age, which will never happen, might not happen.
Maureen assures S that Trip is on board with the plan, and then seals the deal by producing THE LETTER. If S doesn't go along with it, Rufus will find out that Lily spent the night in Keith's hotel room at the end of the summer. And though THE LETTER is vague as to what happened that night, nobody's really considering alternate possibilities: "Knowing Lily, I think we can assume the worst. I'm pretty sure Rufus will." Serena does so as well, is sickened and can't speak, so Maureen gives her a bright and shiny goodbye and flies off through the night in a chariot made of Executive Realness. Empire state is where Maureen lives.
Charlie's drunk himself into bed, fully clothed and on top of the covers, when Blair comes looking for him -- he's missed their lunch date and is clearly in the quickest downward spiral ever accomplished on this show -- and he looks at her angrily through his fingers and tells her about a million times to fuck off, and every single thing she says cuts way too close to his issues ("I know how hard it was for you to let your guard down," she says tearfully, "To let me in") so Charlie rolls his eyes all around and then -- haunted by Bart through a heavily-glazed French door -- drunkenly tells her to GTFO. She finally gets that he's going to a very dark place, and leaves to figure out another scheme, and Bart's like, "Well done."
The Departed is about a gangster that pretends to be a cop and a cop that pretends to be a gangster, both learning how to be a man from the same mobster father figure, and it gets so messed up with them trying to figure out the other one's identity that they pretty much lose sight of their own entirely. It's very good. And I think right now to be Charlie Trout is to be doing both at the same time: Watching himself crack the case of himself while trying desperately to cover up the crime of being himself, and wanting to put a hit out on anybody that starts to clue in, and trying to figure out which parts of his father are a villain and which parts are safe to take with him. In which case, he is lucky to have the van der Woodsens on his side, but about ten times luckier to have Blair Waldorf watching his back.