This task took far longer than she’d anticipated, for she was working on her own. It wasn’t until the day before they were due to fly out that Spence was satisfied she’d been able to pare the original list of more than sixty names down to half a dozen who either didn’t appear to put anything online or were, in her view, little more than possibles. Only when she was satisfied with her efforts did she print out her considerably shorter list and schedule another meeting with Tracy Ireland.
Spence had not been the only one who’d been working her hoofies to the quick as Milan’s fashion week drew near. The agency had taken on the appearance of a disturbed beehive as anxious models and technical staff all rushed about in an effort to achieve the perfection they all knew Tracy Ireland expected, whilst the lady herself came across as calm and unflustered as the eye of a category-five hurricane.
“Ah, Karen, I was wondering when you would show up,” Ireland called out as she led a covey of harried assistants desperately trying to keep up with the woman. “If you could come through to my office in ten minutes, please?” It was one of the politest direct orders Spence had ever received, one that caused a few of Ireland’s minions to give Spence a quick glance, wondering as they did so why the painfully ordinary young woman rated treatment that was so out of character for Ireland.
Spence ignored the daggers directed at her by people she had no need or wish to deal with. “Of course, Ms. Ireland. In fact, I have already—” But Tracy was already distracted by other concerns as she pointed out an improperly packed wardrobe to one of her fawning entourage.
Punctual to the minute, Spence was informed Ireland was ready for her. “Come in, Karen,” came the invitation through the open doorway that separated the inner sanctum of TI Modeling from the rest of the world. As she entered, Spence was surprised to see Pamela had somehow slipped past her and was already there.
“Ms. Ireland, I know that this probably isn’t the best time,” Spence stated as she made her way across the room, “but I’ve managed to narrow down our list of ‘possibles’ to six. I am hoping you might have some insights that will help me narrow that list down even further.”
The look of surprise on Ireland’s face as she studied the sheet Spence had slid across her desk quickly morphed into a predatory smile as she touched her lips with the tip of a pen. “Ignore him … and him,” she muttered as she lined through several of the names. “Might I suggest you focus your attention on these?” she finally concluded after she’d boldly underlined three names.
Spence looked down at the names. The first one belonged to a former model who had left Ireland’s agency under less than happy circumstances and was now a journalist. The other two were heads of rival agencies. Satisfied, Spence tucked the sheet back into her folder. “Certainly, Ms. Ireland. I can see how busy you are, so I’ll just—”
“That wasn’t the reason I wanted to see you today, dear,” Ireland said, cutting her off.
Something in Ireland’s voice caused Spence to stop and frown as her gaze darted from Ireland, then over at Pamela, and finally back to Ireland.
“As you’ve no doubt come to appreciate over the past few days, in fashion image is everything. It is the cornerstone of an agency’s reputation. And since you are coming to Milan as part of the TI team, I hope you’ll understand that your image will reflect upon mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Spence replied warily as she began to suspect something was about to be dropped on her, something for which she was not at all prepared.
“Though you’re not a model, we will need to make you presentable. While slacks and a ponytail may pass muster with other clients you deal with, you will need to do better while you are in Milan as part of my troupe.” Without waiting for an answer from the thoroughly bemused young woman standing before her, Ireland turned to Pamela. “Take Karen down to Marilyn and Pierre with my compliments. Inform them they are to see what they can do with Ms. Spencer.”
After returning Ireland’s wicked little smile with an impish grin of her own, Pamela turned to Spence. “Thank you, Karen,” Ireland announced by way of informing both women they were being dismissed. “I shall look forward to seeing you in Milan.”
As soon as the pair was safely out of the office, Spence rounded on Pamela. “Was this your idea?”
“Mine?” Pamela’s tone was one of surprised innocence that did not fool Spence at all, for she had already come to appreciate the tall blonde’s “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth” look was a well-honed act.
“Yes, yours! I’ve no need to dress up and primp and preen in order to do my job.”
The English girl’s lips twitched in amusement. “If you wish to keep from having your eyes scratched out, I wouldn’t say that too loudly, not around here. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the bum it is to get ready in the morning for most of us?” Then she paused and bit her lip. “Do you recall how you were greeted when you started your cyber self-defense course?”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever stop and wonder why they were all whispering and snickering when you walked into the room, or while you were preaching the gospel of Saint Cyber?”
“Not really. I wasn’t saying anything that was funny, at least I don’t think I was.”
Pamela winced. “It wasn’t what you were saying. I think even Lindsey took your message to heart. Well, maybe not her,” she continued after pausing to give her last statement some thought. “But the rest of us did.”
“If it wasn’t what I was saying, what did cause them to go off like that?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“I guess not,” Spence shot back crisply, making no effort to rein in her frustration with the way Pamela was taking her time to come to the point.
“It was what you are, I mean were, wearing, and how you were made up.”
Stepping back, Spence took a look down at her attire. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? And, just in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t bother with makeup.”
“Exactly! And your hair! Honestly, a girl with hair like yours should glory in it, not hide it by pulling it back and trussing it up in a ponytail.” With that, Pamela grabbed Spence by the arm and gently tugged her toward the technical studios of the agency. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” Pamela chirped brightly. “You’ll love it. When we’re done with you, the guys at work will have their eyes on stalks, guaranteed.” Then she grinned impishly as she adopted a lousy German accent. “Besides, you have no choice, fräulein. You vere only obeying orders.”
“So tell me again. Which bit of this am I supposed to enjoy?” Spence whined as she squirmed in the salon chair.
“Stop being such a grouch, girl. You’ll look lovely. Marilyn is only tidying up the split ends.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” the stylist added. “I’m not going to do anything radical, although I think some highlights would really set your hair off. What do you think?” she asked as she turned to Pamela. “A touch of honey? Or perhaps something more assertive and eye-catching?”
The comment brought the image of a bobbing red ponytail unbidden to Spence’s mind. “Red,” she declared suddenly. “I’d like red highlights.”
Both Pamela and Marilyn grinned at her sudden change of heart. “There,” Pamela replied with a satisfied grin. “I knew you’d start to enjoy yourself.”
Three hours later a rather different Spence was released from the grips of the technical department having been tweezed, threaded, exfoliated, and made over. The only failure had been their foray into the wardrobe department, where its wiry guardian had muttered apologetically that he had nothing large enough to fit mademoiselle before beating a hasty retreat as an indignant Spence took to pelting him with some of Tommy’s choicer epithets.