Sorry to say it, but Tom Hiddleston would make a terrible spy. It’s just past Monday lunchtime on Sloane Square, and the British actor is beginning to turn heads. He should blend right in, dressed in a sharp, West London–appropriate Ralph Lauren suit, his clean-cut good looks lightly disguised by a hint of a beard. Even Vogue’s photographer is hidden from view, positioned several floors up in a nearby hotel room, from where he is snapping the 44-year-old in the street below, sniper-like, with a long lens. But such is his fame that it takes just a matter of minutes—seconds?—before the first passerby pulls a phone from a pocket. In Hiddleston’s defense, he is posing alfresco at a restaurant table with a drop-dead Camila Morrone (looking a world away from her hippy-ish breakout role in Daisy

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