‘Please,’ I said, following him as he walked. ‘I’ll pay you back when I find work. I’m a good cook, I just need to eat. Please.’

The man’s smile sank into irritation. ‘You want work, go do it on the Calle Mirimar, like all the other whores.’

I watched him go, biting back tears of shame and anger. Except for the Señor, it had been a long time since any man had spoken to me like that. They didn’t dare; even the truly insolent ones usually held their tongues when they realized that I was in charge of the kitchen, and could easily drop something foul into their food, or worse.

But that world was gone. Out here, I was nothing. These people didn’t know that I could take offcuts of meat and stew them into spiced softness or make a man sick to the guts with a few pinches of powder in his soup; that I could mix a drink to empty a purse or cook a rabo de toro that could lead a girl to murder. All they saw was a woman in stained clothes with a bruised, sunburned face. I truly understood then, for the first time, how the girls at the inn must have felt. Long hair and a skirt and a pair of open legs, that was all men saw of them. It was all men would see of me now. I had wanted to disappear into a wash of humanity, but not like that. Never like that.

My wandering steps took me into a town; La Atunara, I saw it was called. It began as a stretch of shanties beyond the beach, makeshift structures of wood and tin, tar-smeared cloth and whatever else could be found to plug the holes. Children played naked in the dust, dogs roamed, vines and small trees sprang in yards, where chickens scratched hopefully. Amongst it all, I went entirely unnoticed.

Eventually, the street widened and the houses became bars, gaudy with tacked-up advertisements. On one corner, a woman was cooking fish over a brazier. Sardines, whole, skewered four to a stick, grilled in nothing but salt and their skin. The scent of food made me stagger with longing, and I reeled out of the thoroughfare to lean against a wall.

It can’t have been more than a minute or two before I heard someone addressing me. I opened my eyes. It was a girl, her lips rouged, her blouse worn sheer, showing the frayed lace of her chemise.

‘What?’ I murmured.

‘I said that’s Concetta’s spot. She’ll beat you if you stay there.’

I blinked at her, but the street seemed to be lurching forwards and backwards. All I could do was steady myself on the wooden wall, and close my eyes again.