The She-Devil in the Mirror Read Free Page B

to be enjoyed to his heart’s content, but no, he had to start in
with his demands, with all that possessiveness nonsense, as if Olga María would
be fool enough to leave Marito, the father of her children, just for the sake of
going off to live with some Spaniard. That Julio Iglesias turned out to be a
real cretin: he was so obsessed he didn’t even care that Marito was his partner
and friend, he’d call her with no discretion whatsoever, and then he’d show up
at the boutique acting like a lunatic. That’s why there never was a third time.
Olga María got desperate, being stalked like that, such pigheadedness: she asked
him not to call her anymore, to forget about what had happened between them. She
reminded him she was a married woman and had two daughters—he couldn’t just
ignore all that—and she told him there was absolutely no way she would leave
Marito to live with him. You know what that dimwit said? My dear, he said he had
a flat and a Mercedes Benz in Madrid and she could start a new life there, they
could just slip away so there wouldn’t even be a scandal. Yes, my dear, handsome
but dumb, that Julio Iglesias. He finally calmed down, resigned himself to the
situation, but not before trying to blackmail her—can you believe it?—he
threatened to tell Marito. A few months ago he went back to Madrid for good. He
and Olga María were distant, cold, civil to each other when Marito was
around—and as it turned out, Julio Iglesias was nothing but a sham, he had a
wife in Spain and a few weeks after his
affaire
, as they say, with Olga
María, he fell head over heels in love with some accountant who worked at the
agency. That’s what I’m telling you: you can never trust a man. He even tried to
seduce me, the brute. He was still going on about how much in love he was with
Olga María—and then he leapt at the first opportunity to ask me over for dinner,
with the excuse that he wanted to talk about her. I wasn’t buying a word of it,
my dear. The way he looked at me when he asked me over, and then again, at a
soiree at Olga María’s, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the way you look at
your confidante. But he was very handsome, that Julio Iglesias, so I played
along. He told me he wanted me to see his apartment; after all, we could speak
freely there, and he promised to whip up a fettuccini al pesto, his own special
recipe. He’s a really good cook, my dear. I made it clear from the get-go that
the only reason I’d accepted his invitation was out of friendship with Olga
María. I swear the minute I entered his apartment I didn’t let him change the
subject; I asked him what Olga María thought of his furniture, the pictures on
the walls, the décor in general. I hung out with him in the kitchen, because he
hadn’t finished cooking, and he poured me a glass of delicious Rioja, then he
started rattling on about his great love for Olga María, his passion, the most
amazing thing he’d experienced in El Salvador; he even rolled his eyes, that
Julio Iglesias, when he repeated that nonsense about how he was willing to do
anything to save his relationship with her. Yes, my dear, men are disgusting.
Just imagine, when afterward I found out he was already going out with the
accountant at the agency. But that evening in his apartment he was playing the
same old tape: Olga María’s indifference was killing him, I needed to help him,
convince Olga María to get back together with him. I just let him talk; the wine
was delicious and so was the dinner. It was during dessert when I told him I was
envious of the intensity of his love for Olga María, nobody was in love with me
that way. Why did I say that, my dear? Suddenly, he changed: he was quiet for a
moment, then he started playing a new tape, and now it was as if Olga María had
never existed, he started off saying he couldn’t believe me, he