Chapter 35: Monday, Monday
The frost that morning was crystalline and brutal, etching every blade of grass, every splinter of wood on the Brentwood site hut into brittle clarity. Inside, the small electric heater fought a losing battle, its glow doing little to disperse the chill that seeped through the thin walls. Steam rose from two chipped mugs of coffee on the plywood table between them.
Ian hadn’t touched his. He just stared at Caleb, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Caleb’s own mug was cradled in his work-roughened hands for warmth. He looked, Ian thought, tired. Not from physical labour, but from something deeper. “How many marriages end in divorce?”
Ian barked a short, humourless laugh. “A lot. Mine certainly did.”
“About fifty percent,” Caleb said, his voice low and steady. “And I don’t want mine to. I don’t want to lose Sandi.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Ian said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “And that’s why I don’t understand ‘this’. What the two of you are doing.”
Caleb took a slow breath, the air puffing out visible in the cold. “It’s a biological fact,” he began, choosing his words with a strange, deliberate care. “That a woman, freed of the repression of her childhood, and relieved of the inhibitions that society imposes, needs so much sex that one man, no matter how virile, can satisfy her.” He met Ian’s gaze directly. “Why do you think they get so short-tempered? So picky, so bitter and twisted, so angry and ready to blow? Sandi’s been a good wife and mother. It’s time for me to set her free so she can just be a woman. I’m fucking her three times a day and she still needs more.”
The crudity of it, the raw confession in the sterile morning light, hit Ian like a physical blow. He blinked. “Jesus, Caleb.”
“So,” Caleb continued, as if discussing a subcontractor’s schedule, “if you find her attractive…”
“Are you joking?” Ian interrupted, a hot flush rising up his neck. “She’s so fucking hot – she’s driving the guys wild when she comes on site on a Saturday morning. That little skirt last week… Christ.”
A brief, pained smile touched Caleb’s lips. He nodded, acknowledging the truth of it. “If you find her attractive,” he repeated, forging ahead, “if you can be discreet, and give her what she wants and needs from you—Ian the man, not Ian my best friend—then we can take our friendship into very special territory. Like Sandi and I are doing with our marriage.”
The hut was silent except for the whir of the heater. Ian felt unmoored. “How is it going to work?”
Caleb seemed to relax a fraction, as if the hardest part was over. “I suggest you think about it between now and Saturday morning. I’ll ask her to do the same. And if she’s sure about going through with it, I’ll ask her to call you before you finish work next Saturday lunchtime.” He laid it out with meticulous calm. “If you don’t want to proceed, no problem. Just don’t answer. But if you do, drive to our place. Park on the drive. Just walk up to the front door, knock, and wait until she answers—so the neighbours won’t be suspicious. Go in like you’re there to see me.”
Ian listened, a strange, tight coil of anticipation winding in his gut.
“I’ll confine myself to my den,” Caleb said, looking down into his coffee. “I’ve always got a lot of paperwork to deal with. If you want to take a shower, just tell her. Depending on whether you got covered in sawdust or cement powder at work. So you feel good and start to relax.” He finally looked up, and his eyes were earnest, almost pleading. “Because it’s got to be relaxed. With no pressure on either of you. It’s got to unfold at your own pace. It’s got to be guilt-free, with no shame or regret. It’s got to be a positive thing for both you and her.”