"Where does your salary go, Alden?" Della asked. Della said it at the bar, loud enough that the barman stopped pouring. She had crossed the whole dance floor with her train bunched in one fist, past the DJ, past a cousin holding a plate of olives, and she hadn't slowed down once. Alden lowered his phone. "Del, what are you—" "Not here." She took hold of his sleeve. "Come on." "We can't just walk out in the middle of..." he said "Watch me," she said. She pulled him through the side door and down the corridor, shouldered open the door marked CLOAKROOM, hauled him in, and shut it behind them. It was tiny. Two rails of guests' coats, a tub of numbered tickets, one bulb buzzing overhead. It smelled of wet wool and old cigarettes. The music from the hall came through the wall as a dull thump. "There are two hundred people out there," Alden said. "They'll cope. Answer the question," she said. "You mean what Mum said?" He tugged his sleeve straight, slowly, as if the sleeve were t
Última atualização : 2026-10-13
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