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.P.Bonilla and, believe me, you would die if you ever checked him out.I have to confess that I skipped over the J.P.Bonilla description—but my memory for names is not quite as bad as Fernanda believes, for I do happen to remember a very long story about this Bonilla character from my recent chat with Bea on the north balcony of the hotel.From what I could tell, a very réussi editor—one of those disciples of American-style marketing who always knows how to take the tiniest little bits of trivia about his authors and turn them into major news.According to Bea, Bonilla is a very cheeky man who very recently tried to convince her to do a job that sounded like some kind of scam.If memory serves me correctly, it involved the author of an erotic novel entitled The Blue Midriff—he wanted Bea to throw her parties, get her photographed, and basically go everywhere with this woman, a native of a place called Borrioboola-Gha—wherever that is.And speaking of geography, I cannot help but feel that the world is so very small and Madrid even smaller.My God, to think that here, without moving an inch from L’Hirondelle, I have come to know tout le monde: Bonilla, Isabella, Bea, and then some.Of course, I can’t say that I am very surprised, because all the tightly knit, insular societies of the world are so very small in the end.High society everywhere is made up of about four or five fat cats, and everyone always knows everyone else.As such, I skip over one or two Who’s Who–type paragraphs and continue reading a bit further down in Fernanda’s fax:As you know, I couldn’t care less about Isabella’s love life—she can shack up with all the J.P.Bonillas on Earth for all I care.My problem with that little two-faced darling is that her meddling has left me without a job that Bonilla had originally promised me.You see, he had been scouting around for a woman friend to do a little job for him, a really cushy assignment given my circumstances.You know how things are for me and Alvaro financially—it is so hard to make any money these days.Anyway, Bonilla had picked me for this project—a fabulous project; it even had a bit of cultural cachet to it.Believe it or not, the idea was that I was supposed to accompany this very famous Borrioboolian writer named Harpic or Sidol or, oh, I don’t know—some name that sounds like a bathroom cleanser, but it doesn’t matter—she’s incredibly famous, that is what I am getting at.The idea totally appealed to me, because it meant that for a few days we would be invited around everywhere, we would get covered in ¡Hola!, which is always fun.but all of that is beside the point, really.The point is, what really got me was that Bonilla was going to pay me a fortune for about three days’ worth of work.I have no idea why he decided to be generous, because let me tell you, any one of my friends would have been thrilled to do it for free.It sounded fun.You’d meet all sorts of interesting people, go to all sorts of parties.You know what I mean.It would have been so glamorous—which is exactly what Isabella must have thought, too, because in the wink of an eye I was left sans Harpic, sans photo spread in ¡Hola!, sans cushy job, because of Isabella, who is already loaded.Life is so unfair, Uncle Rafael.Borrioboola-Gha, I think.Isabella, unwittingly involved in the Borrioboola-Gha mess.Not bad.Maybe life is not as unfair as Fernanda thinks.Of course I know she wouldn’t agree, because two or three paragraphs down I come across another tale of what Fernanda calls “the stony-faced Isabella Steine.”.All right, now.I promise to stop talking about that witch, but I can’t resist showing you one more little thing—proof positive of what tacky, tacky people Bonilla and Isabella really are.I flip to the next page of this eternal fax and find Fernanda, once again, in top form:To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, take a look at this article and photo I clipped from a gossip magazine
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