Looking up, the receptionist made no effort to hide her look of dismay as she regarded the young woman before her with a discerning eye. Neither the girl’s pixie-like features and height nor the color of her hair were what Tracy Ireland preferred. Even worse, the girl’s figure, which the receptionist judged to be edging toward a size eight, was “morbidly obese” compared to the models who were on the books of the agency. Determined to keep from wasting her time with someone who would be rejected by Tracy Ireland the second she saw her, the receptionist didn’t even bother greeting Spence with the plastic smile she wore when dealing with most visitors to an agency that served the needs of first-tier fashion designers worldwide. “If you give me your résumé and portfolio I shall see to it Ms. Ireland sees them while you are waiting to go in.”
Being asked to provide some sort of identification before being received by a client was not at all unusual. If anything, when no one did, Spence became more than a little suspicious, for it hinted at a laxness in security that most likely spilled over into how they protected their computer systems. And while handing over a full résumé was a bit odd, in her mind it was not completely unreasonable, particularly in light of the conversation she had had with Ms. Ireland earlier in the day. As to what kind of portfolio the receptionist was looking for, well, Spence was completely stumped.
When she saw the girl’s quizzical expression, the receptionist sighed. This interview, she concluded, would be quick but very painful. In all likelihood, Ms. Ireland would take one look at the hopelessly plain girl wearing jeans and a loose-fitting white cotton blouse and send her back to whatever hovel she had crawled out of. Still, the receptionist knew it was not her place to tell the girl to save herself the time and trouble it would take to be rejected by Tracy Ireland and simply go away. Crushing the dreams of a young girl who wanted to be a model but did not have what it took was Tracy Ireland’s sole purview, one she excelled at and, if the rumors were to be believed, enjoyed. With that thought in mind, the receptionist told Spence to take a seat as something of a knowing grin tugged at the corner of her carefully painted lips.
Because Spence had seen The Devil Wears Prada more times than she cared to admit, even to herself, the office she was shown to and the woman she found there were pretty much what she had expected. She was greeted by Tracy Ireland, the founder and owner of the TI Modeling Agency, with the same cool, discriminating gaze the receptionist had offered. Unlike that woman, Ireland did not dismiss Spence out of hand. Neither did she make any effort to greet her with anything resembling a welcome. Instead, the woman merely indicated a chair next to her desk with a wave of her hand as she invited Spence to take a seat.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me at such short notice,” Ireland declared in a tone that was as sincere as her affected smile. “Edward Telford, a very dear friend of mine, told me when it comes to dealing with computer security issues, Century Consultants is among the best.”
Without batting an eye, Spence found herself unable to keep from smirking as she returned the woman’s steady, unflinching stare. “I am afraid Mr. Telford has misled you, Ms. Ireland.” She allowed this comment to hang in the air between them long enough for Ireland to pull back as furrows ruffled her otherwise smooth brow before continuing. “We are the best.”
Having been raised by a widowed father who had clung to the ethos of a fighter pilot despite a lateral transfer to the U.S. Air Force’s cyberwarfare wing, Spence had never been good at dealing with a woman such as this, or any other for that matter. So she made no effort to engage in the sort of banalities some people often wasted their time engaging in as she moved on before the woman had an opportunity to regain her footing. “What seems to be your problem, Ms. Ireland?”
Realizing the girl before her possessed the same moxie that had helped her rise above a field choked with competition that would have been daunting to a lesser being, Ireland allowed a knowing smile to momentarily cross her lips before turning to the matter at hand. “During the just concluded fashion week here in London, a number of the girls my agency represents were no-shows. Naturally, this not only put the designers they had been hired by in something of a bind, it reflected poorly on my agency.”
Unable to help herself, Spence gave her ponytail a toss as she tilted her head to one side and regarded Tracy Ireland out of the corner of her eye. “Naturally.”
Though she was able to recognize sass when she saw it, Ireland chose to ignore it. Her need to prevent another round of last-second sickouts by her girls during the upcoming fashion week in Milan was too great to allow the antics of the self-assured, if somewhat painfully ordinary, young woman before her from getting in the way of business. “In the days leading up to fashion week here in London, my top models began receiving threatening e-mails and postings on their social media accounts.”
“What sort of threats were they?” Spence asked.
“From what I have been told, it varied. It started with little more than innocent, unsolicited sexting from anonymous admirers sent to the girls,” Ireland explained in a casual manner that struck Spence as being completely inappropriate given the subject.
Responding to Spence’s hardening expression, Ireland paused to point out the reality that fashion models must live with. “I like to think the models I represent are the cream of the crop. As such, they are not only in great demand by some of the world’s premier fashion designers, they often find themselves the object of unwanted attention. To make it to the top in this profession a model cannot hold anything back. Those young women who do not possess the maturity, stamina, and determination to deal effectively with the seductive allure and pitfalls of the fashion world, or who flaunt the avant-garde styles designers send down the runaways in a manner that is as bold and provocative as the fashions they are modeling, are ignored by the very people they wish to work for. Only a very few models, not more than two or three in every generation, are able to pick and choose who they work for on terms they set.”
“Women such as yourself,” Spence interjected.
Once more Ireland found she could not help but look upon the young woman casually sprawled in the seat across from her as if she were lounging in the living room of her own flat. Eddie was right about the people who worked at Century Consultants. If everyone there was as confident as Karen Spencer, the problems she had experienced during London’s fashion week would be solved. If they weren’t, if she was the victim of another spate of last minute no-shows, Tracy Ireland knew her reputation, along with her ability to stay in business, would be in jeopardy. And that was something she had every intention of avoiding, even if it meant putting her trust in the hands of a woman she would never have given a second thought to had the two crossed paths on the street.
After spending several minutes explaining the nature of the problem and how she had become aware of it, Tracy Ireland asked what could be done to prevent a recurrence. “Prevention is only the start point,” Spence pointed out. “Were each of the incidents you described isolated, which does not seem to be the case given that so many of your models received similar threats at almost exactly the same time, measures they could use to protect themselves from future attacks like this probably wouldn’t work. To be sure this does not happen again, you have to find out who is doing this, catch them in the act, and, if they are in a country that cooperates with British law enforcement, apprehend them.”
Disappointed there was not a simple solution, Ireland sighed. “How do we go about this and what will this cost?”