Free The One You Really Want by Jill Mansell

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.
    â€˜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? ’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜We’re out of eggs,’ said Connor.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.