Page 9 of The Holiday

“Jagger,” she says, squeezing him for a long moment. “I’ve missed you.”

“Darling, we’re going by Jack now,” Jagger says, stepping back to eye her from head to toe. “Jagger clubbed all night, did too much blow, and knew all the wrong boys.”

Marigold can’t help but laugh; he’s describing the Jagger of thirty years ago, and she can see in one glance that things have changed. For one, he’s not wearing knee-high riding boots over black leggings with a matching vest as he might have in the 90s, and has instead traded all that in for a pair of tailored gabardine pants that hit fashionably above the ankle. He’s also wearing an ivory cashmere turtleneck and a pair of loafers with no socks, and—even more shockingly—a wedding ring.

Jagger/Jack holds up his left hand. “Yep. You heard it here first, darling: I’ve been cuffed.”

“Oh, Jag—“ Marigold catches herself. “Jack. Congratulations! This is so fabulous to see you. You look well.”

“I am well, darling. My husband Bill and I own a very cute place in Brooklyn, and we have a rooftop garden. And a dog.” He leans forward and puts a hand on Marigold’s arm, holding it as he shakes her like he’s breaking some sort of astonishing news. “Adog. Sweetheart, when I knew you, I couldn’t commit to a pair of socks, much less a live animal! Here, let me show you our baby.”

Jagger whips out his phone (there’s no way Marigold will stop thinking of him as Jagger—she just can’t) and scrolls through a series of photos of him with a balding man in a sweater vest, and several of a cute little rescue pup with one permanently cocked ear. “This is Viagra,” he says, showing her the dog.

The studio is prepping for the shoot around them, and lightbulbs flash and pop in the background as Marigold makes a face at Jagger. “You named your dog Viagra?”

“Darling,” Jagger says, leaning in to her conspiratorially, “Viagra saved our marriage—both the pillandthe dog!” He hoots, throwing back his head and laughing at his own joke.

“Ready on the set!” the photographer calls out, interrupting them.

“Okay, okay!” Jagger shouts out as he starts wheeling the rack towards the dressing room. “Guess we better move our old, tired asses here,” he says over his shoulder, walking at a fast clip and motioning for Marigold to follow. “Let’s get you into something matronly-but-sexy, my love.”

Marigold, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe over her bra and underwear, stands in the middle of the dressing room as Jagger presents her with a variety of sedate, clean looks. They finally settle on a black turtleneck (“To soften what mother nature thinks is a necessary slackening of our entire fricking head, starting with the neck,” Jagger says with an eye roll), and a slim-fitting pair of black wool pants (“Classy, but still hot enough to snare a man half your age, doll,” Jagger deems as she zips them up). He chooses diamond stud earrings, several gold bangle bracelets, and then examines the nude manicure that the makeup artist has done on Marigold.

“You look like Sharon Stone inBasic Instinct,” Jagger says as he steps back to examine her. “Like a vixen.”

“But with underwear,” Marigold adds with a wink.

Jagger howls. “God, that scene confused me so much,” he says, putting a hand to his chest. “For like, half a day, I thought I might be into women. But then I came to my senses. No offense, doll.”

“None taken.”

"How are we looking?" The photographer breezes in and scans Marigold from top to bottom. "Very chic, Goldie. You're looking very 'Royal Family at Balmoral,'" he says with an approving nod. "This all-black look will be perfect with the purses and bags. Good choice." He is efficient and all business, and after another single nod, he turns and leaves the dressing room.

"Not like the old days, huh?" Jagger asks as they exchange a look, silently thinking of all the debauchery and nonsense that went on in the fashion world back when they both got started.

"God, not at all," Marigold says. "Remember that shoot we were doing together--"

"With the Thierry Mugler look and the motorcycle?" Jagger interrupts. He puts a hand over his mouth like he's still scandalized. "Oh, lord do I remember that one! You got the phone call."

Marigold's smile fades a bit at the memory. "Yes, the phone call."

They'd been in the middle of a shoot with a photographer who was renowned for being difficult, and Marigold's cell phone (a novelty at the time--in 1991 most people didn't carry them or even have access to mobile phones), had rung and rung with calls from Cobb. When Jagger finally answered it and interrupted Marigold on set, it was to tell her that Cobb had overdosed and was in the hospital. That had been a particularly dark time in Marigold's life, and in her relationship with Cobb, but over time, they'd worked through his addiction and their own problems, and had come out on this side much better for all of it.

"How is Cobb?" Jagger asks, turning to the rack and sorting through the hanging dresses and skirts.

A warm flush runs through Marigold as she thinks about her husband. "He's good," she says. “He really is.” After some serious heart problems brought on by years of substance abuse, Cobb has been clean and sober and happy, and—importantly—back in the studio making music, which gives him purpose. “We actually timed this trip intentionally so that we could both work.”

“Oh?” Jagger reaches for a hanging steamer and flicks it on so that he can pull a few wrinkles from a linen shift that’s hanging on the rack. “What’s he doing while you’re here shilling luxury goods?”

Marigold picks a few flecks of lint off the arms of her black sweater as she chuckles. “Well, nothingthisimportant. But he’s doing a little show tonight at The Django.”

“The Bar under The Roxy hotel?”

“That’s the one.” Marigold glances at the camera set-up as the photographer calls out for her to find her mark. “I think that’s my cue.”

Her heels click across the painted concrete floors of the giant space as she strolls confidently over to the lights and the camera. Modeling is almost second nature to her at this point in her life, and selling leather purses and bags puts her squarely in the category of “lifestyle model,” a term which means nothing to the rest of the world, but which means that she’s old enough that her days as a high fashion mannequin are mostly behind her. And Marigold doesn’t even mind that—not anymore.

“You look lovely,” the set stylist says, swooping in to tuck Marigold’s hair behind one ear. The woman is roughly her age, and she’s gentle as she straightens and smooths Marigold’s clothing. “I’ve always admired your work.”

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