The Midwife's Special Delivery. Carol Marinelli

as if it had been dipped in hot oil. ‘So don’t worry, I’m not ringing to ask for a lift.’

      ‘Makes a change.’Ally smiled, shouting to be heard. ‘Where are you, then?’

      ‘Bali…’ The line crackled again. ‘End of season footy trip. I get in tomorrow. Did you hear the news? I’m coming back…’

      ‘You start Monday!’ Ally broke in when the line crackled yet again. ‘I heard. Congratulations, Rory.’

      ‘Any chance of renting a room from my old landlady?’

      And the silence this time had nothing to do with the appalling line, nothing to do with the fact he was at a call box in Bali, and everything to do with the fact she hadn’t seen him for three years. Everything to do with the fact that the last time she’d seen him, he’d literally broken her heart.

      ‘Look, no drama if I can’t,’ Rory carried on, clearly oblivious to the turmoil he’d created. ‘I’ve got a room at the doctors’ mess. I just thought I’d ask…’

      ‘I don’t take tenants any more,’ Ally said, then instantly regretted her rather prim tone—as if those years of laughter, parties and fun had been to do with money. ‘I mean, you’d be horribly bored, it’s nothing like it was—there’s just me here now. I don’t need the rent or anything.’ She was blabbering now, horribly so, trying to sound casual and somehow trying to keep him at arm’s length.

      ‘If it makes it easier for you, I won’t pay rent!’ He started to laugh, and it sounded the same as she remembered, so much so that Ally closed her eyes, pictured that smile on his face, his laid-back humour, his take-it-or-leave-it jokes, and could scarcely believe that after all this time she was talking to him. That Rory was on the other end of the phone, asking to move back in. Rory would be working with her from Monday. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She could hear the pips going on the phone, knew that his money was running out. That ever sensible part of her brain was telling her to just let it go, let his money run out, let him hang up—the same way he’d hung up on them all those years ago.

      So why was she shouting into the phone?

      ‘Sure—no drama. If I’m at work when you get here, the key’s still in the same place!’

      ‘You don’t mind?’ Rory checked. ‘It’s just for a couple of weeks until I…’

      His money must have run out, or maybe, Ally thought as she hung up, Rory Donovan had got what he wanted, sorted out his accommodation and moved on to something more important: his footy mates and a glass of beer.

      ‘That was Rory!’ Ally said, staring into the somber, cloudy eyes of Sheba—the oldest, smelliest Labrador in Australia. ‘It sounds like he’s coming home.’

      Home?

      There wasn’t much of her face pack left to peel off but, unnerved now, Ally headed to the bathroom and rinsed off the remains and brushed her teeth, before finally lifting her face and staring in the mirror, trying to envisage somehow what Rory would see.

      The dark short curls were long now, way past her shoulders, which sounded far better than it looked, Ally decided, holding up the rather frizzy ends and vowing to book herself in for a very overdue trim.

      Her skin had cleared up at least.

      Thanks to an appallingly delayed adolescence, the last time he’d seen her she’d had a T-zone you could drive a car down. She’d been sure that she’d end her days in a nursing home and, instead of a glass jar for her teeth, she’d have a bottle of acne lotion by her bed, but at twenty-seven years of age her skin was finally, after the longest time, spot-free. Her eyes were still boringly brown, of course, and her lashes, despite nightly rubbing with Vaseline and the most expensive eyelash curler, were still short and spiky.

      Not that he’d notice.

      Not that he’d ever noticed.

      Except for once. Firmly pushing that thought out of her mind, Ally peeled off her T-shirt and, pulling on a bigger, baggier one, crawled into bed. Reaching for the alarm clock, she wondered if she should set it, tried to work out the flying hours from Bali to Melbourne and gave up.

      She damn well wasn’t going to be standing at the door welcoming him and she sure as hell wasn’t about to put clean sheets on the spare bed and make a mad dash to the bakery for rolls.

      He could take her as he found her.

      Twenty-seven years old with a beautiful home, a great career and a fabulous group of friends.

      Rory Donovan could take her as he found her…

      Instead of where he’d left her…

       CHAPTER ONE

      SO MUCH for fresh rolls!

      Pulling on her uniform, Ally cut off a piece of cheese and rammed it into the offending article, furious with herself that despite her stern promises she’d awoken at the crack of dawn and headed straight for the baker’s, furious with herself that she’d made up Rory’s bed and put on some coffee, not to mention five hundred coats of mascara—furious because she’d expected more from herself.

      It was midday!

      Midday and, even allowing for delays, even allowing for customs and a massive queue at the taxi rank he should have been here hours ago.

      Well, what had she expected?

      Exactly what Rory had expected, Ally realised.

      To walk straight back in to the accommodating, friendly girl he’d so easily said goodbye to.

      Well, she wasn’t that girl any more.

      Throwing the jug of coffee down the sink didn’t really help, but a full carton of milk and the remains of the sugar did—picturing his face when he went to make his regular, disgustingly strong, disgustingly sweet brew, he could damn well walk to the grocer’s. Ripping the sheets off his freshly made-up bed, Ally shoved them in the washing machine and turned it on the longest, hottest wash the dial could summon, writing a massive note in black text and leaving it on the kitchen bench.

      Sheets in the machine

      Feel free to use the dryer

      Ally

      Not that that would stop him, Ally realised—knowing Rory, he’d either crash on the bare mattress or deviate straight to her room!

      A mischievous smile played on her lips.

      Heading to her bedroom, she rummaged through her knickers drawer, rummaged right to the very bottom where a pair of leopardskin knickers and bra lay—courtesy of a hen night party—still in their Cellophane. No doubt they’d crumble to dust once she opened them, but in an act of defiance Ally ripped open the pack, slung the two triangles that called themselves a bra over the chair in her bedroom and threw the G-string on the floor.

      If only she had a packet of condoms to leave by the bed.

      Instead, she exchanged her midwifery manual for a steamy romance she’d been meaning to read, sprayed half a bottle of perfume to scent the room, hid all her acne creams, razors and hard-skin removers and closed the door on the temporary brothel she’d created, feeling great, in control, on top of things…

      Until she heard the unmistakable purr of a taxi.

      Until she heard that deep, throaty voice, laughing and chatting with the driver.

      Standing far back enough from her window so that she could see and hopefully be seen, Ally stared as three long years were erased in a single moment.

      In an effort to keep going, in an effort to just keep breathing some days, Ally had managed to convince herself that the images that played over and over in her mind didn’t actually match the reality—that if ever Rory Donovan stepped back