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It Started with a Cold

   Tara sneezed her way through a box of tissues until Mark insisted she took a couple of sick days.

   ‘I can’t. I’ve got clients all day and…’

   ‘And they will have to wait. ‘Tara’s husband urged her back into bed and put a mug of hot water and lemon into her hands. ‘You’re over doing it and it’s not good for the baby. ‘I will ring Curtis Lamb and say you’ve got the flu.’

      Tara tried to protest but the scratchiness in her throat made it painful to talk. She smiled and stroked his fingers. ‘You’re good to me,’ she said, leaning back into the squashy pillows and closing her eyes.

   She heard him  leave for work and reached out for the new crime novel she was reading on her commute to work.  Travelling  into London every day was getting her down she and couldn’t wait for their big move to  South Wales for a simpler life.

 Mark had been offered the transfer as a partner in the firm so, Tara didn’t need to work full time.  She could do anything she wanted. It was her time now.

   As the day wore on, her  coughing turned into something more than just an annoyance. Ribs sore and aching from the effort of dispelling whatever was inflaming her lungs, she struggled out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and hobbled to the bathroom. Groping through the medicine cabinet, she found an old bottle of linctus, the top of which was bunged up with gunge. When she finally released it, she took a long swig along with some pain killers.

   ‘I’m home. You feeling any better?’

   Mark hung his pin-stripe jacket over the newel post and leapt up the stairs. Horrified at the sweat pouring down his wife’s face, he called the emergency doctor.

   ‘It’s alright love,’ he said softly, running a flannel under the cold water top, wringing it out and applying it to her burning forehead. ‘Someone’s coming to see you.’  Within minutes of him speaking, the door- bell chimed.

  Mark escorted the doctor to the bedroom. ‘She’s 3 months pregnant,’ said Mark, as a deep frown almost buried the doctor’s eyes.

   Pulse, temperature, blood pressure and other tests were conducted at speed before Dr. Rahamtullah said, ‘Your wife has a form of pneumonia. I’m calling for an ambulance. Pack a small bag for her please.’

  That evening, Mark sat at his wife’s bedside in a private room of the Royal. The words bounced around his ears. ‘I’m so sorry about the baby.’

   He wanted to run outside to tear at his hair and howl. How could this be happening? He’d just been made partner for God’s sake.

  As Tara’s breathing became more laboured, he watched the colour drain from her face. Her lips twitched with unspoken words.

Mark ran out into the corridor. Nurse? Doctor? Quickly.’

 But it was too late.

‘It was only a cold,’ whispered Mark. ‘ Just a stinking, rotten, common cold.’