"Chez Paul"

A small study in social decay

The tall blonde woman at table four by the fireplace was Helena von Habsburg, a notoriously bitchy socialite. Paul knew it was her. He’d had the displeasure of meeting her once at a gala in Beverly Hills. She was drunk on complimentary champagne, her bulging cleavage making him nervous — but not in a good way. She fancied herself a Dorothy Parker, but lacked the wit. Instead of acerbic charm, she dispensed insipid insults like cheap perfume.

As guests mingled, she headed straight toward him and introduced herself — before he could say a word. With a sweeping gesture, she proclaimed, “Look at these sheep. Insufferable.” She winked, dipped her index finger into her champagne flute, licked it, then grabbed his tie. “Will you be my shepherd?” she whispered. Her gaze appraised him like a hyena stalking a cornered gazelle, her oversized diamond studs catching the candlelight like tiny predatory stars.

“Excuse me, I have to...” he stammered and slipped away.

Later, he overheard her holding court with a captive audience of middle-aged beauties. “The food at Chez Paul?” she sneered. “He’s just not inventive. Too classic. Uninspired. He should try painting or breeding dogs.” No one laughed. There was nothing to laugh at. So she laughed anyway — loud, vulgar, like a cracked bell. He imagined the pale white film on her tongue, an acidic sheen betraying the rot beneath her flawless facade.

The incident was ludicrous, harmless even — but that night, Paul dreamed he woke inside Ms. Habsburg’s belly. A hideous place, hissing and gurgling, bubbling with acid that dripped from intestinal walls like molten lead. Hot. Claustrophobic. A digestive crucible.

When he woke for real, in his sunny bedroom, clad in monogrammed pajamas, his feet were cold against the polished floor. He rubbed them briskly, trying to shake off the residue of the nightmare. His sweet Samoyed jumped onto the bed and licked his face with gentle persistence.

“Don’t worry, Mr. S,” Paul murmured, stroking the dog’s soft, fluffy back. “I’m not going to breed you. Let’s go cook something delicious.”