The One You Really Want (8 page)

She didn't glance up. Deliberately not glancing anywhere, Carmen scuttled into the house as if terrified she might be about to be mugged. Which, let's face it, in Fitzallen Square was unlikely. What he was doing here, God only knew. Absently scratching his chest and wondering if it was time for his next cigarette - he was currently attempting to ration himself to one every two hours, a project miserably doomed to failure - Connor moved away from the window and headed for the fridge instead. A wedge of Cambazola would hit the spot.

OK, he was a disgrace. He freely admitted it. Ten years ago he had opened the original Lazy B in Oxford. Traditionally, founders of gyms or fitness centres didn't eat too much, drink too much, smoke too much or regard an hour-long workout as an hour of sheer, undiluted misery. But this had turned out to be a good thing because it gave Connor O'Shea the impetus to open the kind of gym he wouldn't find completely unbearable. His dream had been to create a gym crossed with a really great pub, with the emphasis on enjoyment and socialising. In his time he'd visited plenty of fitness clubs that reminded him of laboratories - cool, clinical places full of sleek modern fittings, featuring obsessive fitness freaks pounding away on the machines like . . . well, lab rats. If there was anything to drink, it was a healthy drink. If there was anything to eat, it was bound to include salad. Which was fine for the fitness freaks, but not so fine for the vast majority of people who might - in a burst of enthusiasm - join one of these clubs but would, after the first few weeks, find increasingly feeble reasons not to attend. The drop-outs, which was what Connor had termed them, needed more of an incentive to turn up and to keep turning up, month after month. And, OK, maybe they'd be socialising more than they'd be exercising, but even a bit of exercise was better than no exercise at all.

This had been the original idea behind the Lazy B, and it had taken off in a big way. Ten years on, the business was going from strength to strength.

The doorbell rang as Connor was wrestling with the wrapper on a packet of Scotch eggs. Heading for the front door, he wondered if it was his neighbour, popping round to introduce herself and borrow a cup of sugar. Where had that expression come from anyway? Had people years ago really needed to borrow cups of sugar? Wouldn't they be more likely to run out of washing-up liquid or batteries or loo roll? He'd never run out of sugar in his life.

It wasn't his neighbour.

‘Dad! Yay, you're here!' Blond hair flying, Mia threw her arms round Connor, knocking her baseball cap off in the process.

Astounded, he hugged her back. ‘I don't believe it. Am I on
This Is Your Life
? Is Michael Aspel hiding behind a post-box? '

‘Sorry, it's just me. Come on then,' Mia said bossily, ‘invite me in. It's freezing out here.'

Connor's heart swelled with love for his daughter. ‘What a fantastic surprise. Why didn't you let me know you were coming?'

‘Duh, because then it wouldn't have been a fantastic surprise, would it?' Reaching down for her blue Nike cap and kicking the front door shut behind her, Mia beamed at him and wriggled her backpack off her shoulders. ‘But I have to say, I'm glad you weren't out. I'll have a cup of tea and a fried egg sandwich . . . ooh, and I'd love a bath afterwards, my feet are killing me.'

‘We're out of eggs,' said Connor.

‘No you aren't, I've brought some.' In the kitchen, Mia unzipped her backpack and pulled out a canary-yellow fleece with Against Factory Farming printed across the front. Unwrapping the fleece, she triumphantly produced an egg box. ‘Present from Mum.'

Wryly, Connor accepted the gift. This meant they were the most organic, free-range eggs imaginable, both inside and out. He just knew they'd be smeared with chicken poo, feathers and bits of straw. As far as Laura was concerned, running them under a tap would have meant washing the goodness off.

‘Great. You fry the eggs, I'll make the tea.'

Mia, not fooled for a second, said cheerfully, ‘Coward. Actually,
chicken
.'

Connor filled the kettle. He leaned against the worktop and watched his daughter briskly scrub the eggs she'd carried with her all the way from Donegal. It was almost impossible to believe that Mia was sixteen; not so long ago she'd been a strong-willed, tantrum-prone four-year-old in dusty orange dungarees. And look at her now, taller than ever, wearing distressed black jeans, pointy black boots and a black and yellow striped mohair sweater that made her look like a bee on stilts. Her shoulder-length streaky blond hair was tied back with a pink band and the only make-up she wore was mascara.

Mia, his beautiful daughter. She was the most important person in his life, yet discovering her existence had caused him untold pain. Anger too. Was it any wonder that Mia was strong-willed, when she had Laura as her mother?

Laura had been running one of those hippy shops in Dublin when Connor first met her. He was seventeen, still at school and working part-time in the bakery next door to Laura's shop. With her waist-length blond hair, embroidered cheesecloth dresses and bewitching smile he had naturally been attracted to her. Well, let's face it, as a hormone-fuelled seventeen-year-old, he'd have been pushed to find a woman he didn't find attractive.

But Laura had bewitched him. Fascinated by her beliefs in crystals, her air of mystery and, OK, her glorious figure, Connor had taken to dropping into her joss-stick-scented shop on a regular basis. He bought his mother a china unicorn with luminous sapphire eyes for her birthday, which had alarmed her no end as she was more accustomed to Yardley gift packs of soap and talc.

When Laura had started inviting him upstairs to her tiny flat above the shop, he had felt as if he'd won the lottery. Sex was a revelation, better than he'd ever imagined, possibly because Laura, at twenty-seven, was an experienced woman of the world. In her bedroom, which smelled of patchouli and jasmine, she introduced him to the joys of love-making and taught him how to give pleasure as well as to receive it.

Their clandestine relationship had lasted three months. Connor was dumbstruck when Laura calmly announced one day, out of the blue, that she was leaving Dublin, giving up the lease on the shop and moving to a smallholding in Donegal.

He felt as if his air supply had been cut off.

‘What? But . . . why?'

‘I want to be self-sufficient.' Laura affectionately stroked his chest; they were in bed together at the time.

‘But I don't want you to go!'

‘Connor, you're seventeen, you're a fine handsome lad. Trust me, you'll find someone else in no time at all.'

‘I love you,' he blurted out, and Laura smiled.

‘You don't. You love having sex with me. I'm ten years older than you are. I know what I want to do with my life, and now I'm moving on to the next stage. I'll be growing my own vegetables, tending sheep and goats, spinning my own wool - it's going to be fantastic.'

Already bereft, Connor said, ‘Can I come and visit you, at least?'

‘I don't think so. There wouldn't be a lot of point. Hey, we've had fun.' Reaching over, Laura planted a warm kiss on his mouth. ‘Life's a journey, right? And now it's time we went our separate ways. I don't have any regrets, Connor. I'll always be glad we had this time together. You're a wonderful person.'

Resignedly, Connor said, ‘But not quite wonderful enough.'

Of course, Laura had been right. He'd missed her to begin with, but life went on and he turned out to be less heartbroken than he'd imagined. After a while he started seeing someone else, a pretty eighteen-year-old called Niamh, who was studying law at Trinity. Memories of Laura had gradually faded from his mind, just as she had promised.

He was still only seventeen after all.

And that would have been that, had it not been for a chance meeting almost five years later.

Connor's girlfriend at the time, a beautician by the name of Clodagh, had been invited to the wedding of an old school friend. Unwillingly, Connor had found himself forced to go along with her. It wasn't what he wanted to do - truth be told, he was on the verge of finishing with Clodagh - but she had insisted, booking them into a nearby country hotel for a long weekend as an incentive.

The wedding was taking place in Donegal, and the hotel contained a health and beauty spa. Arriving there on Friday morning, Clodagh announced that as an extra treat she had booked both of them into the spa for the entire afternoon, for a mud wrap, massage, pedicure, manicure, Reiki healing and a sunbed. It was at that moment that Connor knew for sure that their relationship was over.

‘I don't want any of that stuff,' he told Clodagh.

Bewildered she said, ‘Why not? You'd love it.'

‘I promise you, I wouldn't.
You'd
love it.' Connor reached for his jacket. ‘I can't think of anything more horrible. You go ahead, have your pampering session. I'll see you back here at six.'

It was a hot sunny day in July. Wandering through the town, he had come across a small Friday market with stallholders selling a variety of cheeses, sausages, Irish linen, vegetables, pottery, souvenirs for visiting tourists and hand-woven baskets. Hungry, Connor stopped off at a small pub selling food and sat at one of the tables outside to drink his pint of Guinness, enjoy a plate of ham and eggs with fried potatoes and watch the world go by. He was in no hurry, he didn't have to be back at the hotel until six o'clock. Maybe after lunch he'd drive on down to the beach and watch the surfers. Or walk the cliff path and admire the spectacular scenery. Or find a betting shop and decide if he was feeling lucky enough for a flutter.

Idly he watched a small girl in dirty orange dungarees fighting a losing battle to persuade her dolls to sit upright. The girl's blond hair hung loose down her back. Her T-shirt was indigo, her feet bare and she was kneeling on the pavement arranging the four shabby stuffed dolls along the top of an upended packing crate. Like spinning plates, every time she reached the fourth doll one of the others would topple over. Amused, Connor realised that the girl was talking to the dolls, threatening to get very cross indeed if they didn't all sit up
straight
.

‘Now behave, or I'll give you a big smack,' she declared bossily. The first doll promptly keeled forward and landed face down on the pavement. Picking it up, the girl said, ‘Did that hurt? Well, serves you right. Don't do it again. You're all
very
naughty.'

‘I think she hit her teeth,' said Connor and the girl looked over at him as if he were mad.

‘She hasn't any teeth. She's a doll.'

Tempted to get competitive, Connor almost asked why she was bothering to speak to the dolls then, seeing as they didn't have any ears either. But since arguing with a small child in the street wasn't entirely dignified, he said, ‘You're right, I'm sorry,' and took a gulp of Guinness instead. Reaching for a cigarette, he was about to light it when a stallholder to his left suddenly rose from her seat in order to serve a customer. Moving forward, her long purple skirt swirled around her legs and in that split second Connor recognised her. He stared in shock as she piled courgettes into a brown paper bag, handed them to her customer and slipped the money into a shabby leather purse slung round her waist.

It had been almost five years. He was looking at his first love. How incredible to see her again now. Realising that the cigarette was still dangling unlit from his lips, he wrenched it out - ouch - and rose to his feet.

‘Laura!'

Laura turned as the customer wandered along to the next stall. Their eyes met and the first thought that flashed through Connor's mind was that she didn't seem nearly as delighted to see him as he was to see her.

Did she think he was going to declare his undying love for her? Sink to his knees, perhaps, and cause an embarrassing scene right here in the street?

Because he wasn't. There was no surge of love and overwhelming regret. He hadn't spent the last five years pining for her. It was nice to bump into her again, that was all.

‘Laura. Great to see you. You're looking . . . um, fantastic. ' This wasn't exactly true, but you could hardly tell an ex-girlfriend she was looking old. With her long hair in a plait, her thin, weather-beaten face and droopy clothes, she looked like a woman who lived off the land. She was thirty-one but looked forty. Still, never mind, he must be looking older himself.

‘Hello, Connor. Nice to see you too.' Laura devoted herself to reorganising the sacks of vegetables around her stall. Normally so cool and composed, he could tell that she was on edge.

‘How's the self-sufficiency thing going?' said Connor, because there weren't any other customers around and it would be downright rude to turn round and walk off.

‘Oh, pretty good. Hard work of course, but it's what I—'

‘Mum, can I have a drink?'

Looking down, Connor saw the small girl in the orange dungarees poking her head round the side of the stall.

‘In a minute, darling. I'm busy.'

‘This is your daughter?' Amazed, Connor said, ‘Hey, that's grand news. Congratulations.'

‘Thanks. Mia, go and play with your dolls.'

‘They're stupid. I hate my dolls.' Puffing out her cheeks, the girl said, ‘I'm thirsty.'

‘Why don't I fetch her something from the pub?' Connor suggested, because Laura was looking agitated. ‘A Coke or something?'

He was only trying to be helpful. Mia gazed up at him, her eyes like saucers. From Laura's expression you'd think he'd suggested buying her daughter a triple bourbon on the rocks.