Page 49 of The Holiday

“I guess that’s good, right?” I asked, reaching for another cracker.

Marigold gave a throaty laugh. “You know…sometimes I worry, but then other times I think, ‘Why the hell not let him just go until he drops,’ right?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but luckily I didn’t have to, because just then Cobb appeared on the scene.

“Dexter, my man!” he shouted, his British accent stronger than I remembered it being on the island. He clapped his hands together and then threw his arms in the air, ready to wrap me in a big, manly hug. I acquiesced to that, clapping him on the back heartily in return. “What brings you to Old Blighty?”

Cobb swept into the room—the slightest hitch in his step—wearing a satin kimono that was untied and flowing behind him. Beneath it, a white t-shirt clung to his still muscular chest, and he wore what appeared to be yoga pants and a clutch of leather necklaces affixed with beads and coins. His hair was wispy and gray-blonde, his face lined, and his teeth whitened to within an inch of his life. He looked amazingly Cobb-like. And to top it off, his feet were bare, right there in the middle of their incredibly beautiful and formal Hampstead Heath kitchen.

I perched on the edge of one of the stools that surrounded the island. “I’ve been writing a book about Ruby, and I knew it wouldn’t be complete without talking to everyone who knew her.”

“Everyone, mate? The woman was your country’s First Lady—she would have known a lot of people.”

"Well, the people who were important to her. The ones who knew her." I watched as Cobb raised his arms overhead, stretching from side to side. “And you two were most certainly important to Ruby."

Cobb poured himself a glass of water and then planted a kiss on his wife's cheek before turning back to look at me. "A book about her? That's beautiful, my friend." Cobb gave me a big, honest smile. "From one artist to another, there's nothing that honors the love of your life like writing something for her. I once wrote Marigold a song, and I think that's why she took me back."

"Oh, Cobb," Marigold scoffed, waving a hand at him. "I didn't need a song to make me love you, but I won't lie and say that it didn't touch my heart."

As she spoke, Marigold moved the bowl of salad over to the table, placing it between all the settings on the table and then moving back and forth to deliver a basket of warm bread, a jug of ice water with lemon slices floating in it, and a small copper serving jug with a spoon to drizzle salad dressing.

"What's the book about, Dexter?" Cobb asked, sweeping over to the table in his robe with his water held in one hand. "Is there an angle, or is it the story of Ruby's life? Because I'd read that."

"No, no--there's an angle," I assured him, sitting in the chair that Cobb motioned for me to take. "I've been talking to everyone, and what I want to do is to write about Ruby based entirely on the stories of the people who knew her. Not a straightforward biography, but more of a puzzle of different pieces put together that paints a full picture of her."

"I love that," Marigold said, pausing by the sink as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “And, more importantly, Ruby would have loved that."

We sat together at the table, dishing up our food, and, much to my surprise, it was Cobb who shared the story about Ruby that you're about to read.

"I have to admit that I never minded taking the piss out of Mrs. Hudson," he admitted. "My dry British humor always got the best of me when I was around her."

"And she loved you for it," I said, reaching for the butter dish.

"How could she not?" He laughed. "An over-the-hill rockstar needling you every time he runs into you in the produce aisle at the grocery store has to be a woman’s favorite fantasy."

"Oh, Cobb," Marigold said, making a face. "You're just an old flirt. I'm sure Ruby picked up on that."

"She did," I piped in. "And, again, she loved you for it."

"That's good--because it was harmless and meant all in good fun." Cobb held up both hands. "We're in treacherous waters these days as gents, aren't we, Dex? What would have passed as mild flirtation back in my day is now punishable by law and requires years of therapy for the ladies to overcome."

"Which is not to downplay real sexual harassment," Marigold said with a warning tone and an arched eyebrow. "Many women suffer every day from the way men take liberties and speak to them as if they were nothing but sex objects."

"I know, I know," Cobb said. He tore off a hunk of bread and reached for his butter knife. "But I can assure you, I have always been a one-woman man, and my flirtations have been--and I mean this from the bottom of my heart--my way of showing appreciation for the ladies, and, perhaps, putting a spring in their step."

I nodded. I knew Cobb well, and I believed him. That said, he'd undoubtedly gotten away with some things over the years purely because hewasa rockstar, but this wasn't the time or the place to debate whether or not his flirtatious one-liners had ever crossed the line with any of the women he'd encountered.

Cobb forked up a big bite of lettuce, beets, and other veggies, then held it over his salad plate as he spoke.

"I was always ribbing her about the White House, about marrying an old codger like Jack Hudson, about being American royalty, etcetera, etcetera. She laughed every time, and she took the piss right back. Asking me whether I'd been banished from Britain for singing dirty songs about the queen, and wondering whether I got tired of being at home, where everyone knew I was just an illegitimate son of the fifth Beatle--lovely chit-chat like that." His perfectly aligned white teeth gleamed under the chandelier lights, but nothing about his smile was menacing; Cobb Hartley was truly just one of those men who got through life on talent, charm, and good looks--plus a healthy dose of luck. He'd survived major heart attacks and health problems that stemmed from years of substance abuse, and now here he was, sober and thriving at eighty.

“Sounds like Ruby to take the teasing in stride,” Marigold said as she poured homemade dressing over her salad greens. “She always did have a good sense of humor.”

“I think that was my very favorite thing about her,” Cobb went on, chewing and talking amiably at the same time. “There was this time when Marigold and I were first back together, and I was recovering at home while all the women took turns checking in on me.” He gave me a knowing smirk. “Didn’t mind that a single bit,” he said as an aside. “Anyhow, your lovely bride came over one afternoon to make sure I was eating my soup and drinking my tea or what have you, and we decided that the best thing for me would be a short walk on the beach.”

Marigold’s head snapped in his direction. “Were you supposed to be out walking at that point, Cobb Hartley?”

“Never you mind, milady. Enough years have gone by that I can’t be expected to remember every detail, can I?” Cobb winked at me, letting us both know that he’d snowed Ruby into taking him out against his wife’s wishes. “So Ruby was holding onto my arm as we walked slowly over the sand, stopping to take a breath here and there, and never straying too far from the house. I knew Marigold would tan my hide if she came back from wherever she was and found me out walking in the sun, but it was just too tempting: the weather was gorgeous, the ocean was calling my name, and Ruby Hudson was playing nursemaid for the afternoon. I mean, a man can only resist so much temptation.”

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