It has been five years since Raúl Garrido, the pampered director of Spanish cinema, shot his last film. Five years since he hit rock bottom and all doors were closed to him. Five years since his life was commented on, dissected and judged by the tabloids.
Now he’s back on the scene to shoot a series. A category B, or even C or D, if such a rating even exists. The protagonists are an ageing movie star, more concerned with her appearance than with the quality of her performance, and an unknown and inexperienced actor, much younger than her, which mortifies the actress. In addition, there’s a producer who is supervising the film to make sure it doesn’t fall back into “old vices” and insufficient filming staff.
In reality, however, none of this would be a problem for Raúl if his boss hadn’t insisted on contracting a new script. One that he thoroughly dislikes. Which never tells the truth. Which has ideas of its own and is overly imaginative. And which drives him crazy. In every way.
A magnificent romantic-erotic novel with touches of mystery in which an “I believe you” is worth much more than an “I love you”.