passion for the criminal psyche.
“Please be careful, Makedde. Don’t take any chances. Promise me.”
“I’ll be fine, I promise,” she assured him. “Anyway,I’m an Amazon. Any psycho would be crazy to mess with me.”
“They are crazy, Makedde. That’s the point.”
“Not legally, they’re not. Psychopaths may have a predatory, manipulative and violent predisposition, but they aren’t legally insane.”
“Knock it off.”
She laughed. “Just buggin’ you. I’ll call soon and let you know what’s happening. I love you Dad.”
“You too.”
She hung up the receiver and drifted back into a fitful sleep.
She dreamt she was standing in tall grass, looking down at the bloodied, naked corpse of a young woman. Hair obscured the face, and as she pulled it back, she came face-to-face with her own lifeless features.
“ Makedde ,” the wind whispered, “ I’m coming for you .”
Makedde walked up the flight of stairs towards Book agency’s huge, glass double doors, stopping briefly to preen in the mirrored wall that lined the stairwell. She studied her made-up face, noting the tired eyes and pale, stressed complexion. She practised a smile and was relieved that the effect was pleasing. Instantly she looked healthy, happy and confident. Looks were deceiving.
She stood outside for a moment and wondered whether she would be able to pull off the appearance of a successful model unaffected by a personal tragedy. No sense in letting them know she was devastated; they would probably insist she take some time off, and that wouldn’t pay the bills. Lengthening her body, pulling her stomach in and fixing an indestructible smile, she stepped inside. She received a noncommittal raised eyebrow from the receptionist, who obviously didn’t know her from a hole in the wall. Makedde could hardly have been offended; she didn’t know the receptionist’s name either.
“Is Charles Swinton in?” she asked.
“Yes, go on back.” The nameless receptionist resumed reading a Vogue magazine on her desk.
Mak clutched her model bag and strode to the back area where ten booking agents, or “bookers”, sat at a long oval table, handling various phone calls and dealing with the hopeful young things hovering about them. Each booker had a computer screen and keyboard, and a young model staring eagerly at the screen as they pushed buttons to determine who was working, and who was not.
Stacks of composite cards in holders lined every wall. An impossibly flawless face shone out from the cover of each card, with the words “Book Model Agency” printed boldly across the top, and the model’s name printed across the bottom. The cardsappeared to be organised in sections. The “Linda”, “Christy”, and “Claudia” type cards were in one section and the “Anna”, “Louise”, and “Makedde” type cards were on another wall. The categories may have represented who was in town and who wasn’t, but Makedde suspected it indicated who would, or would not, get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars.
In vain she tried to get Charles’ attention but for the next fifteen minutes he remained resolutely absorbed in a constant stream of phone calls. He was a slick operator; smooth-talking and complimentary, but firm in negotiation. Charles had a reputation for being able to make or break a model’s career. Such was his pull, many top models had followed him from another big agency when he quit and started up Book with a mysterious business partner. Mak was undecided as to whether or not Book would be good for her, but her mother agency, as each model’s hometown agency is called, was quite enthusiastic about the arrangement. It had been a bit of a coup to have Charles on-side, because he only handled the top girls. Her old ELLE and Vogue covers must have done the trick.
Finally he turned to her, the phone still glued to one ear. “Ah, Makedde. How did Friday go?” It wasn’t exactly the question she was
“Please be careful, Makedde. Don’t take any chances. Promise me.”
“I’ll be fine, I promise,” she assured him. “Anyway,I’m an Amazon. Any psycho would be crazy to mess with me.”
“They are crazy, Makedde. That’s the point.”
“Not legally, they’re not. Psychopaths may have a predatory, manipulative and violent predisposition, but they aren’t legally insane.”
“Knock it off.”
She laughed. “Just buggin’ you. I’ll call soon and let you know what’s happening. I love you Dad.”
“You too.”
She hung up the receiver and drifted back into a fitful sleep.
She dreamt she was standing in tall grass, looking down at the bloodied, naked corpse of a young woman. Hair obscured the face, and as she pulled it back, she came face-to-face with her own lifeless features.
“ Makedde ,” the wind whispered, “ I’m coming for you .”
Makedde walked up the flight of stairs towards Book agency’s huge, glass double doors, stopping briefly to preen in the mirrored wall that lined the stairwell. She studied her made-up face, noting the tired eyes and pale, stressed complexion. She practised a smile and was relieved that the effect was pleasing. Instantly she looked healthy, happy and confident. Looks were deceiving.
She stood outside for a moment and wondered whether she would be able to pull off the appearance of a successful model unaffected by a personal tragedy. No sense in letting them know she was devastated; they would probably insist she take some time off, and that wouldn’t pay the bills. Lengthening her body, pulling her stomach in and fixing an indestructible smile, she stepped inside. She received a noncommittal raised eyebrow from the receptionist, who obviously didn’t know her from a hole in the wall. Makedde could hardly have been offended; she didn’t know the receptionist’s name either.
“Is Charles Swinton in?” she asked.
“Yes, go on back.” The nameless receptionist resumed reading a Vogue magazine on her desk.
Mak clutched her model bag and strode to the back area where ten booking agents, or “bookers”, sat at a long oval table, handling various phone calls and dealing with the hopeful young things hovering about them. Each booker had a computer screen and keyboard, and a young model staring eagerly at the screen as they pushed buttons to determine who was working, and who was not.
Stacks of composite cards in holders lined every wall. An impossibly flawless face shone out from the cover of each card, with the words “Book Model Agency” printed boldly across the top, and the model’s name printed across the bottom. The cardsappeared to be organised in sections. The “Linda”, “Christy”, and “Claudia” type cards were in one section and the “Anna”, “Louise”, and “Makedde” type cards were on another wall. The categories may have represented who was in town and who wasn’t, but Makedde suspected it indicated who would, or would not, get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars.
In vain she tried to get Charles’ attention but for the next fifteen minutes he remained resolutely absorbed in a constant stream of phone calls. He was a slick operator; smooth-talking and complimentary, but firm in negotiation. Charles had a reputation for being able to make or break a model’s career. Such was his pull, many top models had followed him from another big agency when he quit and started up Book with a mysterious business partner. Mak was undecided as to whether or not Book would be good for her, but her mother agency, as each model’s hometown agency is called, was quite enthusiastic about the arrangement. It had been a bit of a coup to have Charles on-side, because he only handled the top girls. Her old ELLE and Vogue covers must have done the trick.
Finally he turned to her, the phone still glued to one ear. “Ah, Makedde. How did Friday go?” It wasn’t exactly the question she was
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