Size 12 Is Not Fat

“Uh,” the roommate said. “Yeah. I’ll give her the message.”

Which is probably not the most subtle way to have gotten my point across. But at least I know Amber is safe.

For the time being.

“We’ve got to go, Cooper!” I urge him, as soon as I’ve put the phone down. “I’ve got to know, now!”

“Heather,” Cooper says, looking frustrated. “I swear to God, of all the people I’ve ever met, you have got to be the most—”

I suck in my breath. He’s going to say it! Whatever it was he’d been about to say in my office! He’s going to say it now!

Except that back then—in my office, I mean—it had sounded like what he’d been about to say was complimentary. Judging from the way his jaw is clenched now, though, I don’t think he’s about to say something nice about me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear his next words.

Because, truthfully, the thing with Rachel is more important.

Which is why I say, “This is stupid. You know, there are trains to the Hamptons. I’ll just go look up the schedule online and—”

I don’t know if he gave in because he realized it was the only way to shut me up, or if he was genuinely concerned that I might do myself harm on the LIRR. Maybe he was just trying to placate the crazy injured girl.

In any case, in the time it takes me to get dressed, Cooper has retrieved his car—a ’74 BMW 2002, a vehicle that invariably causes the drug dealers on my street to hoot tauntingly, because, in their opinion, the only good BMW is a new one—from its parking garage. He isn’t happy about it, or anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was cursing whatever impulse had prompted him to ask me to move in with him in the first place.

And I feel bad about it. I really do.

But not enough to tell him to forget the whole thing. Because, you know, a girl’s life is at stake.

It’s easy to find the Allingtons’ weekend place. I mean, they’re in the East Hampton phone book. If they didn’t want people to drop in, they’d have had an unlisted number, right?

And okay, there’s this big wrought-iron gate at the end of their driveway, with a built-in intercom and everything, that might lead the average person to believe visitors were unwelcome.

But I for one didn’t fall for it. I hop out of the car and go to press on the buzzer. And even when no one answers, I’m not discouraged. Well, very much.

“Heather,” Cooper says, from the driver’s window of his car, which he’s rolled down. “I don’t think anybody’s going to—”

But then the intercom crackles, and a voice that is unmistakably Chris’s says, “What?”

I can understand why he’s so testy. I’d sort of been leaning on the buzzer, knowing that eventually the person inside would be driven insane and have to answer. It’s a trick I’d picked up from the reporters who used to stake out the place Jordan and I had shared.

“Um, hi, Chris,” I say into the intercom. “It’s me.”

“Me who?” Chris demands, still sounding annoyed.

“You know,” I say, trying to sound girlishly flirtatious. “Let me in.”

Then I add the three little words I’d learned from Justine’s files that few students—and that’s what Chris is, after all—can resist: “I brought pizza.”

There’s a pause. Then the gate slowly starts to open.

I hurry back to the car, where Cooper is sitting, looking—even if I do say so myself—vaguely impressed.

“Pizza,” he echoes. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Works every time,” I say. I don’t mention how I knew. I’m kind of sick of Justine, to tell the truth.

We pull into the circular driveway, and Villa d’Allington, in all its white stucco glory, looms ahead of us.

I’ve been to the Hamptons before, of course. The Cartwrights have a house there, right on the water, surrounded on three sides by a federally protected bird sanctuary, so no else can build there, and ruin the view.

I’ve been to other people’s homes there as well—houses that were considered architectural marvels and once even a chateau that had been transported, brick by brick, from the south of France. Seriously.

But I’ve never seen anything quite like the Allingtons’ house. Not in the Hamptons, anyway. Stark white and massive, filled with airy, Mediterranean archways and bright, flowering plants, the place is lit up as brightly as Rockefeller Center.

Only instead of a great big gold guy looming over a skating rink, there’s a great big white house looming over a swimming pool.

“How about,” Cooper says, as we get out of the car, “you let me do the talking for a change.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You aren’t going to hit him, are you?”

“Why would I do that?” Cooper asks, sounding surprised.

“Don’t you hit people? I mean, in your line of work?”

“Can’t remember the last time I did,” Cooper says, mildly.

A little bit disappointed, I say, “Well, I think Christopher Allington’s the type of guy you’d like to hit. If you hit people.”

“He is,” Cooper agrees, with a faint smile. “But I won’t. At least, not right away.”

We hear them first, and see them as soon as we part the morning glories that hang like a curtain over one of the archways. Ducking through the sweet-smelling vines, we end up in the backyard. To the left of the shimmering pool is a hot tub, steaming in the cool night air.

In the hot tub are two people, neither of whom, I’m thankful to see, is President Allington or his wife. I think that might have killed me, the sight of President Allington in a Speedo.

They don’t notice us right away, probably because of all the steam and the bright floodlights that light the deck around the pool, but cast the hot tub area in shadow. Scattered here and there along the wide wooden planks of the patio are lounge chairs with pale pink cushions. Off to one side of the pool is a bar, a real bar with stools in front of it and a back-lit area that’s filled with bottles.

I approach the hot tub and clear my throat noisily.

Chris lifts his face from the girl whose breasts he was nuzzling and blinks at us. He is clearly drunk.

The girl is, too. She says, “Hey, she hasn’t got any pizza.” She sounds disappointed about it, even though the two of them seemed to have been doing just fine for themselves in the extra cheese department.