Daisy Edgar-Jones wore a brown suede coat with a pink knit scarf on the Here Comes The Flood set on January 7, 2026.
Paterson, New Jersey, doesn’t offer much in the way of warmth in early January. You can see it in the way Daisy Edgar-Jones is hunched slightly, walking across an asphalt lot that looks biting and grey. She’s wrapped in a long, tan-brown suede coat—the kind that looks heavy and lived-in—and a massive, pale pink knit scarf that looks like a soft, fluffy cloud against the grit of the background. It’s a very specific kind of celebrity street style —the costume variety that has to look like real life but slightly more intentional.
Jodie Foster wears a sharp double-breasted coat for Variety Magazine, discussing her transition from being the only woman on set to working with female directors.
Jodie Foster is sitting against a neutral, grey-wash studio backdrop, looking like a person who has absolutely nothing left to prove. She is wearing a dark, double-breasted coat—heavy wool—with structured shoulders and wide lapels that frame her face with a certain architectural intent. It is a look of quiet power, devoid of the foolish glamour that often plagues January covers. Her hair is short, silvered, and styled with a natural, windswept texture that feels honest.
There is a bluntness to this portrait. No jewelry, no unnecessary high fashion distractions. Just the texture of the coat and the directness of her gaze. It is interesting how her career has shifted; she spent decades navigating an industry where she was often the only woman in the room besides the makeup artist or script supervisor. Now, she speaks about the amazing shift toward working with female directors, a sharp contrast to the simpler, more tedious dynamic she often had with male filmmakers in the past. It is a liberation that shows in the set of her jaw.
Her hands are tucked into her pockets, a pose that feels lived-in and comfortable. The editorial does not try to hide the lines on her face or the reality of a life lived in the spotlight. Even when discussing her famous 2013 speech, she remains firm that it was a meditation on dignity and privacy rather than a simple declaration. It is that same sense of boundary-setting that defines this shoot—a refusal to be a lavish mess for the public eye. The light is soft, wrapping around the dark fabric of the coat, creating a silhouette that is both impenetrable and deeply human.
She looks like a woman who has finally found a way to be seen without being consumed.
Kate Middleton visited Charing Cross Hospital on January 8, 2026, wearing a burgundy Roland Mouret pantsuit and a chocolate suede DeMellier London bag.
The hospital light is never kind, but Kate Middleton makes it look like a choice. She is at Charing Cross, walking through those corridors that smell of floor wax and urgency. She is wearing a burgundy Roland Mouret suit. It is sharp. The trousers have that long, precise break over her heels, and the jacket is buttoned tight, creating a silhouette that is all business, no fuss. Underneath, a coordinating shirt. Monochromatic. It is a deep, wine-soaked red that feels heavy and serious for a January morning. She is carrying a chocolate suede bag—the DeMellier London one—clutched by the top handle. The texture of the suede looks soft against the flat, hard press of the suit fabric. It is a celebrity event look that understands the room. You do not wear foolish glamour to a neurorehabilitation ward. You wear a uniform of empathy.
Her hands are bare of the big sapphire. Just the thin Welsh gold band. It is a practical move—infection control, they say—but it leaves her fingers looking strangely light, almost vulnerable. Her hair is down, those long, familiar waves, catching the fluorescent glow of the hospital ceiling. There is no melodramatic even-handedness here; she just looks like someone who has shown up to do the work. The suit is a repeat, a recycled piece of armor that she knows works. It has a bit of that frozen grit you need when you are shaking hands in a place where people are fighting to walk again.
The dark red fabric moves with a heavy, expensive swing as she talks to the staff. It is a quiet kind of power. Not shouting. Just a deep, saturated presence in a room full of white coats and blue scrubs.
A sharp crease in the trousers and a steady hand on a suede bag.
