Cuckoo by Wendy Perriam

Raring to get back to his faithful little wife.’ Well, she was faithful, wasn’t she? One perfunctory party and a spurned kiss didn’t count.
    â€˜Listen, darling, we’ve had some damned good news on that rubber plantation.’
    â€˜Oh, yes?’
    â€˜We’re going to repossess it, almost certainly, plus ten years’ profits and full compensation. The shares are bound to rocket. Oppenheimer’s delighted.’
    â€˜Really, Charles?’ She tried to sound equally delighted. Charles’ work was the most fascinating thing in his life, so she always aimed to give it due respect. But, sometimes, she wished he did something humble and simple and more comprehensible, like running a sweet shop. Or teaching Media Studies, with a sideline in sheep.
    â€˜They’re just perfecting a new cross-bred rubber tree, which combines the best of the Malaysian and Indonesian strains. It’s particularly suitable to the soil out there, so the total yield …’
    â€˜The line’s awfully bad, darling. I can hardly hear you.’ Odd, when she could still hear the music. It had poured into the telephone exchange and was pounding down the wires – drumbeats and guitars and the deep-sea snort of a tenor saxophone.
    â€˜Rubber Futures are low at the moment, I know that. But with so many people turning to commodities as a currency hedge …’
    Unforgivable to be listening to a second-rate rock group when Charles was expounding the mysteries of the commodity market. She tried to concentrate, return to the safe ritual; waited for a pause. ‘Miss you, darling.’
    â€˜Miss you, too.’
    If she wasn’t really missing him, it was only because she was tired. She’d be relieved when he was home again – always was. She replaced the receiver and walked slowly up to bed. This time, it would be a most important homecoming, since she’d already reached day eleven. She opened the bedside drawer and spread out her temperature chart. She’d written a small C in black biro for every day she’d taken a Clomid. Five black Cs. Any day now, there would be that little dip in her temperature, followed by a rise. It was essential Charles was in there, when it happened. She mustn’t miss it this time, not with Clomid and the chance of twins. She wouldn’t press it the first day he got home. He was always tired then, anyway, and jet-lag might affect his sperm. But the day after, there must be no excuses. She’d cook him his favourite entrecôte chasseur and drape herself in her Janet Reger nightie. From then on, every other day. ‘Miss no chances, but don’t wear him out’ – that was Mr Rathbone’s little maxim. Sperm needed forty-eight hours, apparently, to recover its strength. She put ticks in her diary for the Tuesday, the Thursday, the Saturday, and the following Monday. Hell! The Monday would be difficult. Charles was doubly pressured on a Monday and often stayed late at work. Whatever happened, she must give up her own job. She’d need all her vitality to lure Charles into bed on the right nights, couldn’t risk his anger over Medfield. Anger might endanger an erection, and erections were far more important in her life than driving Mr Smythes to John O’Groats.
    She placed the thermometer neatly on the bedside table, together with the chart and a blue biro. The dots were done in blue, the Cs in black, the dates in green, and red crosses for the five days of her period. (She’d learnt a lot from Charles.)
    She shut her eyes and returned to the Poly dance. Ned’s corduroy suit had been cleaned and valeted, his hair cut and styled at Michaeljohn. They were foxtrotting together in the ballroom of a stately country mansion. The sprawling plastic marigolds had rearranged themselves into formal phalanxes of expensive hot-house flowers. Dylan, Gareth, Les, were impeccable in cashmere dinner jackets and velvet