Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine

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      How was she going to tell him? Rachel looked across the table at Alex, watching fondly as he poured out his breakfast cereal and reached for the milk jug. No children, they had said. Or not for years. Too busy. Too poor. Too stressed. Too soon.

      He glanced up and grinned back at her. ‘OK?’

      She nodded. ‘OK.’

      How had it happened? Well, she knew that. Gastric flu. She’d puked up the pill. As simple as that. And now she was feeling sick again.

      Alex stood up and, dropping a kiss on her head, made for the door. ‘You’ll be late for work, Rachel.’

      She nodded. ‘Just going.’

      The door closed behind him and she put her head in her hands. Perhaps it was a false alarm. Perhaps it was still the flu after all.

      That Saturday was the second time Rachel went to the yoga class. Alex, seeing her tenseness, her strange, unaccustomed unhappiness, had suggested she go. Slowly and gently Eileen took her twelve pupils through the series of asanas and breathing exercises then, as before, at the end they all lay down on their mats, covered themselves with blankets and closed their eyes for a period of relaxation.

      ‘Picture yourself in your favourite place in the country.’ The deep, melodious voice seemed further away than the low stage of the hall. ‘Feel your bare feet in the grass, hear the birds, the wind in the trees, smell the flowers.’