The Estimate

I considered Laura my best friend. At least she certainly was at the time, and had been for over two years. The options were limited. I’d had to give up all my work in entertainment to take proper care of my only daughter, who was hyperactive. I was exhausted. Too exhausted even to maintain professional relationships in hopes of a comeback. I was conspicuous by my absence at cocktail parties and opening nights. Eventually, people forgot about me.

I’d met Laura at a dinner party. She was engaged to a friend of a friend. One day, she left him. We stayed very close. I often invited her over for dinner. I kept inviting her regularly once she started seeing someone new.

He ate in silence, helped himself to seconds, did justice to the wine, thanked me politely at the end of the meal, which was the only time I heard his voice. Perhaps it was better that way. I believe he was completely uncultured and not particularly intelligent. From what I was able to gather over the course of a year spent in his company without any meaningful exchanges, the only thing that interested him was his motorcycle, which he took apart and rebuilt piece by piece every two months. I never understood why. I never asked, afraid the answer would escape me.

Still, Laura seemed perfectly fulfilled with him. She praised his “simplicity” - of which I had no doubt - and the “physical chemistry” between them. I had no opinion on the matter.

He taught fencing, a profession of absolutely no use whatsoever. No one had fought duels in France for ages. That said, he did seem to possess one practical skill Laura had apparently benefited from: he knew how to repaint an apartment with great care.

I immediately seized the opportunity. I wanted to remove the rust-colored stretched fabric covering the living room walls, which had been installed by the previous tenants, and replace it with two good coats of satin white paint. It would brighten up the room considerably. Laura assured me he’d agree to do it for cheap, under the table.

After inspecting the fabric from every angle, measuring it, pressing it between his fingers, Christophe slowly stroked his chin, looking both deeply focused and entirely absent from the world around him. I waited patiently for him to solve the equation that seemed to consume him.

At last, after a long inhalation, the verdict came down: the job wasn’t for him. Just from touching it, you could tell the fabric had been stretched over wooden battens attached to the wall at regular intervals. Professional work. Removing it would mean filling holes and redoing all the plasterwork. It was complicated. Apparently more complicated than dismantling an engine and rebuilding it for no reason.

“But...” he finally said, raising one finger toward the ceiling, the unmistakable sign of a man who had just found the solution to a problem. “I have a friend who could do it for you!”

Laura called me three days later.

“I talked to Damien - Damien’s the guy we told you about - and he could come by next Tuesday to give you an estimate. Does that work for you?”

“Perfect. Around what time?”

“Between noon and twelve-thirty.”

“Great. Did you give him my address?”

“No, Christophe thought it’d be easier if he came with Damien.”

“O.K.”

“And so I thought maybe I could come with Christophe.”

“No problem.”

“And if you don’t mind, Damien would also like to bring his girlfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, because Damien’s used to having lunch with his girlfriend every day.”

“...”

“And actually, I wanted to ask whether you’d mind if we had lunch at your place since it’ll be lunchtime.”

“...”

“Because Damien works every day, so he’s basically giving up his lunch break to come see you!”

“...”

“Christophe won’t have eaten either. He’ll be coming straight from a class. Actually, none of us will have had lunch!”

“...”

“But don’t worry. Just make something simple and casual!”

“Simple and casual...”

“Oh, I should tell you: Damien and his girlfriend are vegetarians. So you’d need to make meat or fish for us, and just vegetables for them.”

“Just vegetables...”

“You could make those two gratins you’ve made for us before. Like a potato gratin and maybe a zucchini one. A little green salad would be perfect too!”

“A little green salad...”

“It’d also be great if you could put together a nice cheese board. Protein’s important when you’re vegetarian. And whole wheat bread. They only eat whole wheat bread!”

“Whole wheat bread...”

“Oh, and I just thought of something: fruit salad! It’d be nice to have a fruit salad for dessert!”

“Yes. For the fiber.”

“But you could also make your chocolate lava cake if you want. That’d be great too!”

“The lava cake...”

“So? Does that work for you? Should I confirm?”

“...”

“Hello? I can’t hear you. Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“So it’s O.K. with you?”

“Laura...”

“Yes?”

“We are talking about a paint estimate for a three-hundred-square-foot living room, correct?”

“Well, yes.”

“And in order to get this estimate, you’re asking me to invite a man I’ve never met and his girlfriend over for lunch?”

“Well yes, I explained it to you. He doesn’t really have time. He’s doing this during his lunch break. Otherwise how do you expect him to do it?”

“He could buy himself a sandwich. Isn’t that what people do when they don’t have time?”

“Oh, come on, you’re exaggerating! Does it really bother you that much to invite him to lunch?”

“Because it’s normal to invite someone to lunch when they’re coming over to give an estimate?”

“Oh my God! Why are you taking it like this? This is different!”

“Oh yes, very different. The two of you are coming along to hold the hand of a man who’s willing to come only if he doesn’t have to let go of his girlfriend’s hand, and I end up cooking for four people, two of whom are vegetarians. And for the last ten minutes I’ve been listening to you place a preorder. Do you realize how absurd this situation is?”

“But he’s only coming because of Christophe! Otherwise he wouldn’t come at all! Believe me, he’s not hurting for work. Honestly! If I’d known you were going to get so offended. Really, I didn’t think you were like this.”

“You know what? The fabric’s staying on the walls. Have a nice day, Laura.”

There was no gratin the following Tuesday. Nor any Tuesday after that.