Bitten and painted

Bee undresses on the balcony of the uppermost spire at the
Cathedral Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It is night. Distant TV masts
flicker and blink - she watches them for a pattern. She plucks the
underside of her breast. A hand appears from the shadows and smothers
her face. Torchlight shines in her eyes and the hand dabs foundation
across her sharp cheek bones, brow, neck and breasts. Lifting her wrist
to her mouth Bee lets out a short
cough.

&;quot;Have you used lip-stain?&;quot; a
voice asks.

&;quot;Yes. Sorry, I
forgot.&;quot;

The hand with the foundation sponge
disappears. The torch lowers to illuminate ripped black jeans and a
manicured hand rifling through a bag of creams, glosses, eye shadows,
curlers, lipsticks and mascara. The hand stops and reverses to a waxy
tomato-red lipstick. &;quot;Hold still.&;quot;

Bee watches a Polizia van below that dips in and out
of view; it creates a silent disco in the back alleys and passageways.

&;quot;Bee. Yours.&;quot;

The hand grows from the dark. Hanging from its index
finger is a length of black material like a dish cloth.

Bee waits in the dark to be called. A warm breeze
makes her want a cigarette, even though she is not a smoker. She puts
her hand on her belly; her ring is cold and she shivers.

&;quot;Bee, have you been sleeping properly? You
look?&;quot; A man's voice interrupts, it dapples off the adjacent
spires and fades.

&;quot;Beatrice, my love!
You're up.&;quot;

&;quot;Bee, you're going to
have to wear the boots you've got on. 'Kay?&;quot;

&;quot;Beatrice?&;quot; The man's voice calls
out again.

Following the railing around, she totters
towards the glow. The mural floor tiles - shades of clay and yoghurt -
are lit up by a stand-alone three-bar spotlight on a tripod; Bee steps
into its blaze and winces.

&;quot;You-hoo, over
here,&;quot; David says, clicking his fingers above his head.

&;quot;I can't see you, David.&;quot;

&;quot;That's why you're the model my dear. You
look stunning. Now I know you won't find this too hard - I need you to
be aloof. And let's see those pins.&;quot;

A
slash in the material opens to the top of her left thigh. Bee looks at
the veins in her leg. She wonders whether the blood is really blue.

&;quot;Good. Good. But more unapproachable.
Supercilious. Reticent.&;quot;

The hump of bone
on her wrist, Bee considers, rotating her hand, could break noses.

&;quot;Nice. Lovely.&;quot;

The camera click echoes: it sounds like bats. One
flies in ellipses and circles around an orange streetlight. She touches
the peeling railings with her fingertips. It is an overcast night.
There are no stars.

&;quot;Bee, stay with
me.&;quot;

The voice arrives from three or four
directions. She looks down at the street; a man is lighting a cigar in
a doorway.

&;quot;Bee? This is not suicide
chic.&;quot; &;quot;David, I don't?&;quot;

She feels the right heel go first. It is like
descending stairs in the dark, striding out to a step that does not
exist. With both hands Bee grabs for the railings at her waist, lunging
at them as if for a snatched purse. Someone yells, then moves quickly
behind the light. A tripod leg scrapes and catches on the tiles; the
light smashes face-first on the floor, crashing in sparks that
illuminate her like a camera flash. She is glimpsed, pivoting over the
rails. Stumbling, David unhooks the wire that had caught on his shoe.
He holds onto the railing and waits for his eyes to adjust.

~

Three hours earlier. The
Pulporia de Santiago was a narrow low-ceilinged former mess hall. The
benches and tables were in one long row with the clientele seated
tightly together at the far end. Two large cauldrons were clattered
down on the table - a waiter removed both lids from the pots and held
them aloft like cymbals.

&;quot;Apetito
bueno,&;quot; he said, wafting the steam up into the rafters.

&;quot;It smells like a family changing
room,&;quot; Bee whispered to David.

&;quot;Welcome,&;quot; the waiter yelled as he
stepped back into the kitchen through double doors.

&;quot;Do you want to go somewhere
else?&;quot; David asked.

&;quot;I am starving
but?&;quot;

The waiter reappeared carrying
plates. &;quot;Come! Sit! First of the season my friends,&;quot;
he called, laying out plates for David and Bee next to the other
customers. He raised his arm and beckoned them, billowing clouds of
steam.

The first course was bouillabaisse with
gritty mussels and rubbery pulpo. Inspecting a mussel, Bee noted that
it was not dissimilar to a suede zip purse she'd seen in the market
earlier that day. David plucked the mussel from the end of her fork as
she examined it. &;quot;Try another; I think that one has got a baby
crab in it.&;quot;

Using his fork to remove the
tiny cluster of pink limbs, he laid the crab on the table cloth.

&;quot;I'm sorry David,&;quot; she dangled a
suckered purpling tentacle in front of her eyes, &;quot;I just don't
think I can.&;quot;

&;quot;Why not?&;quot;

&;quot;Well. Because it's all so ugly.&;quot;

&;quot;Not all of the animal kingdom can be as
beautiful as you,&;quot; he said popping a mussel into his mouth.

&;quot;What's this?&;quot; she asked.

&;quot;A shcallop.&;quot;

&;quot;Why is it playing a
trumpet?&;quot;

&;quot;Thash a
shaxaphone.&;quot; He swallowed.

Bee balanced the
scallop on her spoon, then slipped its yellow tusk into her mouth and
bit. Swallowing exaggeratedly, she dabbed her lips with a napkin then
shook her head as if ushering away an unwanted thought. He took the
spoon from her hand and directed it into his mouth.

&;quot;Num,&;quot; he said with his mouth
full.

The waiter announced his arrival by banging
through the swing doors. He carried a tray with eight carafes of wine
and a stack of wooden cups. Leaning in-between the heads of the
customers he speckled the table. He reached passed Bee and placed wine
in front of her.

&;quot;For the beautiful
lady,&;quot; he said, setting two cups down. &;quot;Is there
anything?&;quot; The waiter stopped. A pocked octopus leg hung
luxuriously from her bowl. Bee glanced around at the people sat next to
her; they had already clinked their spoons in to empty bowls and were
polishing with hunks of bread.

&;quot;You didn't
like? A beautiful lady like you didn't like?&;quot;

The waiter leant nearer, his hands behind his back.
He had shaved badly - a patch below his ear was in shadow.

&;quot;No, no, I've just never tried shellfish
before.&;quot;

The waiter smiled as if sharing an
old joke. &;quot;You don't like?&;quot;

&;quot;No, it's not that. I've never
tried,&;quot; she waved her fork towards the soup cauldrons,
&;quot;any of this.&;quot;

The waiter followed
the path drawn by her fork. He took a moment to blink and then he spoke
quickly.

&;quot;You never eat Pulpo? No wonder
you so pale. A beautiful lady like you must have the best seafood. In
fact, for you I will get something special.&;quot; The waiter
inhaled and glanced toward the kitchen. &;quot;Hold on a
minute.&;quot;

Bee looked down at her plate and
frowned, nudging the protruding octopus leg back into the broth.

&;quot;You should've eaten this for me,&;quot;
she said.

&;quot;Darling, you know I'm watching
my weight.&;quot;

Someone was shouting in the
kitchen. Bee turned to look through the misted up windows of the double
doors. A hand swiped a porthole out of the steamed-up window; a red
face appeared.

&;quot;What are they
doing?&;quot; she asked. &;quot;I am not eating
oysters.&;quot; The red face seemed to be nodding as it retreated to
the fog. &;quot;Anyway, what has being beautiful got to do with
shellfish?&;quot;

&;quot;Look, just think
about something else. You know tonight's shoot is in a thirteenth
century cathedral? We've got our pick of the spires so I hope you're
not afraid of heights.&;quot;

Some minutes later
the waiter returned and began laying out plates at each place except
Bee's. He bustled back and forth, laying cutlery, refilling the wine.
She looked at him but he ignored her - balancing dirty bowls in trails
up both arms. Three young men with summer suits and no ties came and
sat next to Bee and David on the benches. She could make out their
acidic aftershave amongst the rich wafts of moules a mariniere. The
waiter greeted the men and handed them bowls along with another
cauldron of bouillabaisse.

&;quot;Excuse
me.&;quot; Bee extended a bitten and painted fingernail. &;quot;I
was wondering if I could order.&;quot;

The waiter
continued to hand out cutlery as he spoke. &;quot;Senora, you shall
have the chef's speciality, courtesy of the house.&;quot;

&;quot;That's very kind but it's really not
necessary.&;quot;

&;quot;No, no, Senora.
Please.&;quot; The waiter turned to walk away.

&;quot;I ought to warn you I don't like
oysters,&;quot; she said loudly.

At this the
waiter turned back and grinned; his teeth seemed huddled together,
hustling for space. &;quot;I assure you Senora. Like Frankie goes to
Hollywood say: relax.&;quot;

The restaurant began
to fill. Customers crammed onto the long benches and the tables creaked
under the weight of broth. David was served calamari and langoustine
with everyone else while Bee waited. The sound of the shells cracking
could have been paparazzi.

&;quot;This is making
me nervous, David.&;quot;

&;quot;Beatrice,
relax, keep your mind on the shoot. Apparently it'll piss down tomorrow
so tonight's going to our best chance.&;quot; The elbows of those
sitting next to her clucked at her ribs.

&;quot;I
swear, Bee, if we get the cover with these shots then who knows where
it'll lead.&;quot; He tore the langoustine's pink flesh from its
shell as if removing a knife from its sheath.

&;quot;I won't like it,&;quot;

&;quot;You're going to look stunning. I promise.
Have I failed you yet?&;quot;

&;quot;No, I
mean the food. I won't like it.&;quot;

&;quot;Bee, I'm sure they'll bring you something
nice. Besides, once you're famous you'll be able to eat anything you
want.&;quot;

She watched him conduct surgery on
another langoustine. &;quot;David, I'm going to go to the
loo.&;quot;

His chewing slowed.

&;quot;You okay?&;quot;

&;quot;I'm fine.&;quot; She swigged at her
wine.

&;quot;You don't have to do the shoot
tonight you know? If you really want to you can go
home.&;quot;

&;quot;Don't patronise me, David.
I'll do the shoot.&;quot; She stood up and clambered off the bench.
She followed a sign for Servicios that led down a short dark corridor.
There was one cubicle - it was not occupied.

The loo
stank of industrial cleaning fluid; there was a tide of turquoise gel
that had recently been sprayed around the toilet bowl. The seat was up.
A small mirror hung above the cistern. Leaning down towards it, Bee
sucked on her top lip and pulled taut the flesh under her eyes with an
index finger. She realised that she did not need the toilet after all.
She stared at her eyes in the mirror until they started to dilate. She
put a hand on the wall for balance.

Bee wasn't sure
how long she had stayed there. She watched the door handle turn; she
made no sound as the door swung inwards. Then, as if woken up, she
wedged her heel under the door.

&;quot;Cierre la
puerta si usted lo tiene que utilizar - trato de limpiar!&;quot; a
female voice said. Bee slammed the door shut and locked it. She felt
nauseous from the smell.

She waited a few minutes.
Eventually she flushed the toilet and then stepped out the door. The
woman had gone. There was a bucket and mop leant against the wall.

Bee squeezed back into her space on the bench. David
was talking to the young men next to him - they were laughing at
something he'd said. They smiled and nodded to her as she sat down.
&;quot;S?, ella es modela,&;quot; David told them. She could
still smell the toilet cleaner. She listened to the scraping of cutlery
on bowls.

&;quot;I'm not sure I'm
hungry,&;quot; she said.

&;quot;Seafood's good
for your skin, you know. It's clinically proven.&;quot;

Bee swirled the wine in her glass before sipping at
it. There was a crash from the kitchen. The young men found this
amusing. She downed the remainder of her wine and poured out more,
slopping some onto the table. The waiter stood behind her. He cleared
his throat and placed a serrated knife, a fork and a metal device that
looked like an eyelash straightener at her right hand.

&;quot;Almost ready, Senora. Fresh
today.&;quot;

Her stare hardened. David thanked
the waiter in Spanish, raising his eyebrows. She waited until she heard
the kitchen doors swing shut.

&;quot;Piss off,
David.&;quot;

&;quot;What have I done? I was
just thanking him.&;quot;

She picked up the metal
contraption and flexed it. She looked towards the kitchen doors. She
could hear someone singing.

&;quot;I'm sorry
David, I've got to go.&;quot;

&;quot;Beatrice,
please.&;quot;

&;quot;I'll see you tonight.
Well, in two hours. I can't do this.&;quot;

The
young men stopped eating and looked up to watch her hoist herself off
the bench. The gap that she had occupied disappeared. David called to
her but she quickly faded into the noise, steam and smoke. The waiter
arrived carrying a large square porcelain plate at shoulder height. It
steamed like a wrecked car. He stood at the spot where Bee had been. He
peered down but could not find her.