A Miracle For The Baby Doctor. Meredith Webber

probably!

      She shrugged her shoulders and sighed again.

      ‘Trouble?’

      She turned at the sound of her boss’s voice and smiled at the man who was part of the reason she hadn’t fled. Dr Andrew Flint was one of the foremost IVF specialists in Australia—the best in Sydney as far as Fran was concerned—and his, admittedly early, work into IVM could revolutionise the way couples who had difficulty conceiving could have babies.

      Could bring hope...

      And she knew a lot about hope...

      Andy had been the first specialist in Australia to work on in vitro maturation, where immature eggs were taken from women and grown to maturity in an incubator, and this work had excited Fran so much she hadn’t considered leaving.

      ‘Andy?’ she said, when he’d been standing just inside the door of her office for a few moments.

      This prompt was obviously not enough so she added, ‘You wanted something?’

      He smiled and shook his head.

      ‘I did, but now I’m realising just how much I’ll miss you if you say yes to what I’ve come to ask.’

      Fran shook her head. Used as she was to deciphering her rather absent-minded boss’s pronouncements, this one had her stumped.

      ‘Which was?’ she tried.

      He was still smiling as he came closer to her.

      ‘I’ve been asked to lend you to someone. Have you ever run across Steve Ransome? He runs an IVF clinic in the Alexandria area. He offers couples on limited incomes from some of the inner-city areas a reduced rate but his clinic has a high success rate so he has plenty of regular fee-paying clients.’

      Fran shook her head.

      ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ she said, refusing to think about high success rates and concentrating instead on where on earth this conversation might be going.

      And why had he mentioned missing her?

      At least trying to make sense out of Andy’s rambling was distracting her from the mother’s phone call—from the image of a smugly pregnant Clarissa that had lodged in her head...

      ‘Well, no matter, he’s a good bloke, and he’s asked me to lend you to him.’

      ‘Lend me to him?’

      This was bizarre, even for Andy!

      ‘For his clinic in Vanuatu.’

      Andy made this pronouncement as if it cleared up the whole conversation, and beamed at her as if he’d managed something wonderful.

      Fran rose to her feet and walked around her desk, pulling up a chair and turning to her boss.

      ‘Please sit, Andy, then tell me this story from the beginning. I gather this doctor contacted you. Let’s start there.’

      Looking mildly put out, Andy sat.

      ‘But I told you,’ he protested. ‘Vanuatu! Only for a few weeks—four, I think Steve said. I thought it would be great for you—tropical island, balmy breezes, getting out of Sydney when the weather’s so lousy. It’s work, of course, and he particularly asked if I had someone on staff who’d done some IVM work. I thought of you straight off. You’ve been looking a little peaky lately. The change will do you good. Hard to manage here without you, of course, but you’ve got all the staff trained so well, I’m sure they’ll cope.’

      Sufficiently intrigued to swallow yet another sigh, Fran pieced the random bits of information together.

      ‘This man has a clinic in Vanuatu?’

      Andy smiled again, practically applauding her grip on the situation.

      ‘It’s a giving-back thing, you see, or maybe paying forward—that’s what he might have said,’ he said, and although Fran didn’t see or follow the paying forward part, she pressed on.

      ‘And he needs an embryologist for four weeks?’

      ‘I think it was four, or maybe six,’ Andy said, his forehead crumpling as he tried to remember. Then he obviously gave up on that bit of irrelevant information and added, ‘I said I was pretty sure you’d go. Friend in need—doing good work—that kind of thing. Right up your alley, I thought, and a lovely holiday thrown in.’

      Realising she wasn’t going to get much more from her boss, Fran changed tack.

      ‘Perhaps I should speak to him, find out exactly what the job entails.’

      Andy shook his head.

      ‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘He left yesterday. Asked me last week but I forgot and he phoned from the airport. Gave me the name of his practice manager and said she’d sort you out with flights and stuff. I’ve got the number here.’

      Andy fished in his pocket, producing several screwed-up scraps of paper, uncrumpling them and glancing at each for a moment before stuffing them back into their hiding place.

      ‘Ah, here we go! Name’s Helen and the phone number’s there.’

      He handed the scrap of paper to Fran, who surveyed it dubiously. It certainly said Helen and there was a phone number but...

      ‘I think he wants you soon—like yesterday,’ Andy added, standing up and heading for the door. ‘You’ll still get your pay from here, of course, and he said something about having accommodation for you. Do keep in touch.’

      On which note he disappeared out the door.

      Having worked with Andy since graduating ten years earlier, Fran knew that was all she’d get out of him. In fact, if she asked him anything about it later in the day, he would probably stare blankly at her, the entire conversation lost in whatever was currently holding his attention.

      So Fran leaned back in her chair and wondered about serendipity.

      Ten minutes earlier she’d been pondering her stupidity in letting pride keep her in Sydney after her divorce from Nigel and his subsequent marriage to Clarissa.

      Well, pride, and her attachment to Andy and his work!

      Now here was an invitation to escape—if only for four weeks—plumped right into her lap in the most unlikely manner.

      Piecing together what little she’d gleaned from Andy, she assumed this man he’d spoken of—Steve Ransome—was running some kind of IVF programme on the island of Vanuatu and needed a embryologist—in particular one with experience in the very new field of IVM.

      She knew of Vanuatu, of course. An island nation in the South Pacific, originally under French rule, if she remembered rightly.

      Sun, sand, crystal-clear water, palm-tree fronds waving languidly over brilliantly coloured flowers...

      She looked at the rain lashing against her window and shivered because September, which should be bringing a little warmth, and a promise of spring, had so far provided nothing but rain and more rain, with temperatures more like winter.

      And Clarissa was pregnant...

      Her ex-husband’s wife, Clarissa.

      Her ex-husband, who’d hated every visit to the IVF clinic when Fran had been trying to get pregnant, who’d found the whole idea of IVF somehow humiliating—a slight on his manhood—and who now had a naturally pregnant wife...

      And as Fran’s mother’s best friend, Joan, was Nigel’s mother, there’d no doubt be regular progress reports on the pregnancy of the wonderfully fertile Clarissa.

      Doubt stabbed at her, making Fran wonder if the whole thing subtly underlined her mother’s disappointment in Fran’s failure to produce a child. Fran shook her head again.

      No, her mother had been upset over the divorce, but more because of the two families’ friendship.

      But