The Bride Wore Size 12

“We know the piece in the Express was bad, Stan,” I say. I’m sitting beside him at the vast, shiny conference table, which I can feel shaking because of the force of his jiggling. “But you know what’s worse?”

“Don’t say that a girl died in your building yesterday.”

Dr. Jessup’s got a fake smile plastered across his tanned face—I can tell he played a lot of golf over the summer—and is speaking from the side of his mouth as President Allington’s assistant moves around the shiny mahogany-and-glass conference table, making sure we have enough cream and finger sandwiches.

“I am going to say it. A girl died in our building yesterday.” I don’t bother to lower my voice. “And we’re being dragged up to the president’s office just because something about our VIR got posted online. That’s not only worse, it’s a waste of time.”

It doesn’t matter if I lower my voice. No one’s going to overhear me, least of all President Allington. His office is as wide as the Fischer Hall penthouse, and on an even higher floor on a building on the south side of Washington Square Park. It appears to have been decorated by someone with a fondness for black leather furniture and dark wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides look out across SoHo and Fifth Avenue, while full-length portraits of the president and his wife, Eleanor, scowl down at us from beside a couple of potted palms.

The president’s desk—where he’s currently consulting with media relations expert Muffy Fowler and some of the college’s expert legal team—is approximately the size of a Gap checkout counter and seems a thousand miles away.

It’s intimidating enough to make a person want to throw up . . .

. . . which one person, namely my boss, Lisa, is already doing down the hall in the ladies’ room.

“No,” Dr. Jessup says to me, still speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “That girl’s death, while doubtlessly tragic, does not financially impact our department in any way. That Twitter or Tweet or twat or whatever it was from the Express, does. That’s why this is worse. Not because these people are bureaucratic nimrods whose thumbs are up their asses.” He smiles beatifically at President Allington’s assistant, who is laying out a silver coffee and tea service. “Those sandwiches look simply lovely, Gloria.”

Gloria smiles back. “Why, thank you, Stan,” she says with a flirtatious wink before walking away.

“It was a blog post,” I tell Dr. Jessup, though I don’t know why I bother, since his gaze is on Gloria’s departing legs. “And how does it financially impact our department?”

“We were supposed to keep the prince’s room assignment a secret,” Dr. Jessup hisses. “The fact that he has twenty-four-hour security, and where those security personnel are based, is supposed to be a secret. How the hell did the Express find out about it? The president’s going to cut off our funding over this. And he’s been very generous with our funding lately. Where do you think we got the money to upgrade your building this past summer? From this office. I was hoping to renovate your friend Tom’s building, Waverly Hall, next. Did you know those boys in the frat houses only have one working elevator? And it hasn’t been upgraded since 1995. But I bet I can kiss that money good-bye now.”

He smiles at one of the guys from Legal who comes over to snag a finger sandwich. “How you doing, Bill?” Dr. Jessup asks chummily.

“Oh, you know,” Bill says, chewing. “Can’t complain. Hey, I played Maidstone over the weekend. Birdied the sixth hole.”

“Did you really, you old bastard?” Dr. Jessup asks. “Guess they’ve lowered their standards.”

Both men guffaw at Dr. Jessup’s joke while I sit there feeling guilty in spite of the fact that I had nothing to do with leaking the information about Prince Rashid to the New York College student news blog. I know how much Tom loves Waverly Hall, and would have appreciated a new elevator.

“You know, Prince Rashid himself could have leaked the information,” I say to Dr. Jessup after Bill walks away. “He hasn’t exactly been Mr. Subtle. I counted over fifty people going into that party he had the night Jasmine died. Any one of them could have tattled to the Express.”

“But only someone from your staff could have known about the location of the security detail,” Dr. Jessup says. “The guy can’t be stupid enough to have been bragging to his party guests about that.”

Dr. Jessup has a point. Rashid is followed everywhere he goes by two armed bodyguards. He has to be aware he’s received death threats. He may have nicknamed himself after a dry red table wine, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

“Oh my God.” Lisa returns from the ladies’ room and collapses into the expensive black leather chair beside mine. “Sorry I was gone for so long. Did I miss anything? Ooo, are those cucumber? My favorite.”

She leans over and picks up a tiny sandwich from one of the platters President Allington’s assistant has left in front of us, then pops it into her mouth and begins chewing delightedly. When her gaze meets mine, she asks, “What?” with her mouth full. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No. You must be feeling better,” I say, in a neutral tone.

“Oh, I am,” she says, and pours herself a cup of tea. “I’m starving. I think that was just some of the leftover flu virus before. Or queasiness from the elevator ride. That thing goes so fast. Thirty floors is a lot.”

“Right,” I say, still in the neutral tone.

Is this really how it’s going to go? I wonder. The girl who can’t have kids is going to have to point out to the girl who doesn’t want them that she’s maybe—possibly even likely—pregnant?

“Well, hey there, y’all.”

Muffy Fowler has strolled over to join us at the conference table. She’s wearing a wide smile and a cream-colored skirt and peplum jacket, with matching cream-colored shoes. Beside her is the president of the college, a gray-haired man dressed in a somber business suit (who, I happen to know, since he and his wife live in the penthouse of Fischer Hall, feels more comfortable in a sweatsuit, preferably in the school colors of blue and gold).

Behind the president are a number of men I don’t know, along with one I do . . . Special Agent Lancaster. He’s wearing his seemingly habitual scowl, dark suit and tie, and earpiece.