Cities are always more magical at night – the colourful lights transform them into fairylands, ones I don’t get to see much of because I’m usually tucked up in bed by early-o’clock. Bangkok is also chaotic and noisy, like it’s in constant party mode. The cab carrying the three of us jostles along the street while we, lethargic after the flight, silently watch snakes of people surging along crowded pavements. Eight lanes of traffic eventually creep into two and glass skyscrapers and ornate temples change into grey concrete buildings hunched beside each other, mimicking ancient gravestones.
My own world is changing as well. But it’s too hard, too complicated, too painful. I want to go backwards – to when Jacob, Aria and I lived each day as the Ragamuffins, a nickname as powerful as the Three Musketeers, a label that told everyone we could not be separated; we were as one.
Colt sees my gloomy face. I quickly pack it away.
We’re crawling along a road lined with red canopies above every building’s entrance. When we park next to a squat building so plain and lacking in windows it could be a prison, for a second I’m confused. The hotels in Bangkok are always flash, their standard of five star more like ten star, and the exchange rate works in our favour. And then it hits me.
I round on Colt. ‘You’re staying in a hostel again?’
Colt opens the door and climbs out. I scoot across the seat and follow him to the back of the cab where he’s waiting for his luggage. ‘This is crazy. Why can’t you share with us? Your stupid ego will lose you this tournament.’
Up the street people shout and whoop, throwing a bottle of something between them. Barrelling nearer, they zigzag around us, hooting and colliding. Colt steps forward to protect me from getting knocked over. ‘Watch it,’ he yells, glaring after them until they disappear around a corner. He yanks two huge bags from the boot. ‘Stayed in worse.’
Seizing the strap on a bag, I shout, ‘Quit the pride crap and come with us.’
‘Cut it out, Harper.’ He tugs the bag from my grasp. ‘See you tomorrow.’
I tail him inside the hostel where there’s a tatty rug, a wooden desk, a rack of dusty postcards and a corkboard littered with maps and flyers. On the right is a timber deck. People lounge on mattresses or benches, swigging beer. Milo appears next to me as Colt speaks to the man at the desk.
‘Milo, why can’t you talk him into sharing with one of us?’
Milo scratches an eyebrow. ‘I’ve tried since before you came along.’
‘But this is crazy. He needs peace when he’s not playing.’ I peek over Milo’s shoulder at the bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and take in the smell of damp. ‘Look what happened at Wollongong.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Stupid ego. I understand the money problems, but we can share. I’m going to talk some sense –’
Milo traps my elbow. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘Complicated? No it’s not – unless there’s something you’re not telling me?’
Milo curses. ‘Don’t tell Colt you know this –’ Milo crosses and uncrosses his arms. ‘When I took Colt on we agreed he wouldn’t pay me until he could afford to. Now he won’t spend what he sees as “my” money on himself, and in his mind, sharing a room would further take advantage of me. Do you see?’
Colt approaches, jiggling a key. ‘All set,’ he says. ‘Room 14, if you decide to send room service.’
‘I want to see your room,’ I say.
Colt’s grin grows. He tosses the key and captures it, tilts his head to me. ‘She’s a bit forward, isn’t she, Milo?’ I glare at them both.
Milo taps my arm. ‘Say goodnight, Harper.’ He walks outside as three guys amble in, passing a smoke between them.
I can’t say much given what Milo just revealed. Instead, I hug Colt for longer than normal. The warm contact and arnica smell is comforting. ‘Not happy, Quinn.’
Colt tugs my ponytail as I walk away.
Milo is sitting in the back of the cab, eyes hidden behind aviators. ‘You need to take this iron will onto the court with you.’
‘Did you take me on for free too?’
‘No. And it’s not free, Harper. I don’t see Colt as a gamble. He’ll make it. I approached him. It was my idea. He will pay me back.’
‘Training us as the best ever mixed doubles partners wasn’t why you took me on – it was to pay you enough to subsidise Colt’s unpaid fees – to get your hotel paid for. Does my dad know this?’
‘He does. I was perfectly upfront with him about Colt’s situation. Everyone benefited and therefore you shouldn’t have a problem with it.’
I snatch his sunglasses off. ‘I have a problem with being treated like a child. Why did no-one tell me?’
He takes back the sunglasses. ‘I have told you, and you’re acting like a toddler. Perhaps you’ve answered your own question.’
I seethe in silence. Milo’s just made me feel like Kominsky did – second-rate.
Our hotel, a huge glass structure lit with blue and pink lights, boasts a circular entrance, regal pillars, marble floors and crystal chandeliers as big as cars. The churning in my stomach worsens.
Milo’s room is at the other end of the corridor from mine. ‘’Night, Harper,’ he says. ‘Financials aside, I took you on because you have what it takes – and because you and Colt possess the X-factor required for doubles partnerships. I’d been looking for that for months.’
I say goodnight, my voice cold, but the bruised feeling swirling through my chest fades a little. I shove open the door to my hotel room. The king-sized bed is decorated with multicoloured cushions. There’s even a sitting area. I yank the curtains closed, shutting out the sparkle of the city below. When I turn and lean against them the bathroom, with its walk-in shower, stone benchtops and spa, confronts me. This is not right. It’s the sight of two white waffle dressing-gowns hanging beside twin basins, orange blossoms peeping out of the pockets, that pushes me over the edge.
Minutes later, I’m in a cab travelling back to Colt’s hostel.
If it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.
It’s late when I get there and the desk is unmanned. I sneak down a diamond-carpeted corridor and struggle up a narrow staircase with my holdall. The door of Room 12 is open. It’s crammed with four metal bunk beds. Next door is a bathroom containing rows of toilets and showers. I knock on the door with 14 inked on it. No answer. I rap harder.
‘Harper, what the hell?’ Colt emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. The dark hair on his chest curls, damp, and there’s a shaving cut on his jaw. Holy hot guy in towel.
I push my chin out, ignoring the rustling inside my belly. ‘If this place is great, I want to stay here, too.’
‘This is bullshit.’ He rams the key in the lock, shoving me inside when the door flies open. The room’s poky but clean, despite an old water stain across the ceiling. There’s a neatly made double bed, bamboo blinds at the window, and a small wooden cupboard. Colt slams the door. ‘Does Milo know you’re here?’
‘Nope. You’re not the only one who’s stubborn, though. I’m not leaving.’ I ditch the holdall and stand tall, but the room’s tiny and he’s half a metre away, smelling of oranges and bristling with annoyance.
‘I’m so taking you back,’ he growls, yanking a white T-shirt over his head.
‘You’ll have to carry me downstairs, kicking and screaming.’
He rubs his brow. ‘You can’t stay here. For a start it’s December. They’re fully booked.’
I glance uncertainly at the bed. ‘Good thing there’s a double in here then.’ I pinch my bottom lip between two fingers. ‘Or you could share my room at the hotel. It’s bigger – king-sized bed. More space for two.’
Stony-faced, Colt waves me off. ‘No way.’
Given he won’t tell me about the deal with M
ilo and how it means he won’t share rooms with him, I go for a different angle. ‘Listen, I know Milo hates sharing and needs privacy. But I’m cool with it. It can be our secret. We can put a pile of pillows between us when we sleep.’
He glares out the window at the view of a brick wall. ‘Not going to happen.’
I haul my bag onto the bed, unzip it. ‘Where do I put my stuff?’ I drag out piles of clothes and dump them on the bed.
‘Harper, come on. Stop.’ He seizes my wrist.
‘I’m not staying there if you’re staying here. That’s final.’ I pull at more clothes until he snatches the bag, chucking it at the closed door with a thud. The door rattles.
He curses, shouting now. ‘What do you want from me?’ My stomach dives.
I want him to put my world back together.
‘Can you turn back time?’ I yell. But of course he can’t. I decide to appeal to his sense of duty. ‘Failing that I want you to come and share my room. You need to have a settled mind and rest. A good result for you is a good result for me. Your stupid ego is going to affect me, you see. And I can’t have that. And if you’re not at your best it’ll affect Milo – his future rests on your shoulders. Am I right?’
Colt releases my wrist, brushing a palm over his mouth and along his just-shaved jaw. He squeezes, leaving pale finger marks on his skin. ‘This is crazy. We can’t share a room.’
‘Okay. You go to my hotel and I’ll stay here. You said it’s great.’
‘No way,’ he shouts, spinning and kicking the wardrobe.
The bedroom door jolts as someone bangs on it. Colt struggles to open the door against my bag. The man from the front desk peeks in at me, at the clothes flung around the floor, then at Colt. ‘One person paid for,’ he says. ‘Big noise. You go.’
Colt holds up two palms. ‘Sorry, sorry. She’s leaving. We’ll quieten down.’ The man points a warning finger at Colt, who looks angry enough to bite it off. Colt shuts the door and pelts me with a glare.
‘I’m not leaving without you,’ I say. ‘Accept my help. There are three options –’
‘Okay, okay. Pack your crap,’ he says, stuffing his own things into a bag.
Colt scopes out the hotel room. He opens the curtains and ponders the lively scene below. ‘I can see why you were uncomfortable staying here, with me at the hostel.’
‘Good. Guess I’ll use the bathroom. Feel free to unpack.’ After a quick shower I change into an oversized sleep T-shirt that’s as long as a tennis dress.
When I come out, Colt’s perched on a chair, his back to me, watching Sky Sports. His bags, still unpacked, sit side by side against the wall. I pull back the blankets on the bed and build a wall of pillows and cushions down the middle. Colt heads for the bathroom and I yank the sheet over me. When he emerges he clicks off the TV then the lights. The other side of the bed shifts downwards with a squeak.
The room is dimly lit by the clock radio and the light coming from under the door, so I can make out Colt when he peers over the pillow wall. ‘Try to keep your hands off me, okay?’ He grins for the first time.
I work to slow my breathing and kick off the sheet, the room suddenly boiling. My nerves buzz. I’m a friend helping out a friend. It’s just somewhere to sleep. Lying stiffly, I listen to Colt’s steady breathing. He shifts onto his side. Then his other side. The smell of orangey shower gel mixed with arnica and muscle cream floats around us. Perhaps I smell of the flowery soap I used. I’m in bed with Colt! Something more pleasant than nerves spirals through me – similar to a streak of excitement only more intense. But then a dreamless, jet-lagged sleep grabs me.
I wake before Colt and sneak a peek over the pillow wall. He’s on his back, in T-shirt and boxer shorts, an arm flopped across his eyes, denying the sun is up. Today we’ve scheduled a training session before Milo must complete paperwork and other official tournament stuff. Though I’m still cross with Milo after his revelation, I acknowledge he’s never treated me as second-rate. Maybe Kominsky did simply because I acted second-rate. I can sulk about Milo’s deal with Colt, give 90 per cent effort, or I can choose to be first-rate and act like an A-lister.
I get dressed in the bathroom and when I come out Colt has changed into training gear.
‘Breakfast?’ he asks, throwing bags that are still bulging with his stuff into a corner. ‘I could eat a herd of buffalo.’ His smile is king-sized and my heart stutters.
‘Not sure they serve buffalo at his hotel.’ I open the door and almost walk into Milo. Sunglasses in place, his mouth opens and shuts, brisk as a hiccup.
‘Figured I’d join you for breakfast,’ says Colt smoothly, hands shoving into his pockets.
As we walk to the lift Milo puts an arm around our shoulders, pulling us into an awkward huddle. ‘I don’t think that was appropriate, guys. Harper’s a sixteen-year-old girl in my care, Colt. No room visits.’ He releases us and pushes the down button.
My cheeks the colour of guilt, we step into the lift.
‘And one last word on the matter. I didn’t think I needed to say this but – we keep this partnership platonic. Yes?’ I nod, scrutinising the countdown to ground level. Milo cracks his knuckles. ‘I’ve been around long enough to know that relationships on the circuit can tear apart dreams.’
‘Enough said,’ says Colt. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Breakfast is served in a dining area the size of the Sydney Opera House, the glass walls overlooking muddled, rainbow-tinted streets. When Colt approaches the buffet for a second plateful, I follow, not for more food, but to lay down the law. I shoulder-bump him then pour myself a black coffee.
‘We’ll need to be more careful, but you’re not moving back to the hostel. If you do, I’ll turn up again.’ I swipe an apple and give him my ‘I’m not kidding’ glare, but instead of the huffy reaction I’m expecting, his eyes sparkle with amusement.
We’re entered into the singles events of two back-to-back Futures tournaments. Next week’s is in Cambodia. I get to see Colt’s first game with Milo and a few spectators – Futures comps rarely draw big crowds. Colt is winning and he looks over to us, smiling, having broken serve again.
‘My pig whistles,’ says Milo, slapping a leg. ‘The boy’s changing. I’ve never seen him so relaxed on court.’ Milo grants me that well-chuffed look. ‘Colt tells me you’ve been a good friend to him. He needed that, Harper. Thank you.’
I flush with the idea that Colt talked to Milo about me.
Colt wins the game in straight sets.
The atmosphere at Camp Milo is one of disbelief and excitement as we triumph over our opponents and even share celebratory dinners. My five-ball bounce and thinking of Purple Time help me succeed as much as choosing to win one point at a time, which is easier to believe possible than contemplating winning the whole tournament. I’m also fitter than I’ve ever been and have the mental edge on my opponents; based on my past form they expect me to crumple, and when I don’t, it freaks them out. Milo’s pleased that Colt’s not locking himself away, while Colt and I become practised at sneaking him into the hotel – and out again early the next morning. At night we lie on our bed, the pillow wall discarded, and dissect our games, strategies and opponents, then roll over, back to back, and fall asleep. It works, and we plan for the same arrangement in Cambodia.
Five days later, Milo and I follow a victorious Colt into the media room for the post-match interview. Futures tournaments don’t get a lot of attention, but we’re obligated to attend media conferences and Colt has just reached the semi-finals. We’re both having a brilliant tournament – my semi-final is tomorrow.
Milo and I wait at the back of the stark room behind rows of plastic chairs while Colt fidgets at the front. He hates these interviews, maybe because he’s not someone who is comfortable talking about himself. A journalist asks what Colt can attribute his recent run of success to. Straining not to pace like a c
aged tiger, Colt keeps his answer short, prickly even, and rightly gives the credit to Milo. Another asks what Milo changed in Colt’s training. A third asks why Colt uses the surname Quinn when he was born Colt Jagger.
Colt’s already tacked-on smile slips off his face.
Milo strides toward the group – I’ve never seen him move so fast. Colt suddenly darts for the door. The journalists knock over chairs to give chase.
‘How is your father, Colt? Has he cleaned himself up?’ calls the same journalist. But they stop short of pursuing Colt when he pelts down the corridor. They walk back into the room, furiously jabbing at their mobile phone screens.
‘Shit,’ says Milo, jogging down the corridor after Colt.
I follow and bang into Milo when he stops in the main entrance. ‘What’s happened? What do they mean?’
Milo scours every direction, but Colt’s gone. Milo stalks back into the media room, me in tow.
‘Tell me, Milo. What the hell?’
The press crushes around us, talking over each other. Camera lights flash like mini mid-air explosives.
‘Can we organise an interview?’ shouts someone.
‘Tell us about Colt’s father.’
‘Not going to happen, fellas,’ says Milo. ‘Colt and I will respond to questions about the game, but his personal life is his personal life.’ Milo swings Colt’s abandoned bag onto a shoulder, forcing them to step back. He commandeers my elbow and barrels out the door. ‘I’ll tell you in the cab.’
I look around, frantic. ‘But we can’t leave Colt.’
‘He’s long gone.’ Milo marches into the street and hails a cab. Once inside he punches a number on his phone and we peer at Colt’s bag, hunched between us, when it rings. Milo curses.
‘Tell me, Milo. I’m fed up with all these secrets. Has this got something to do with that tennis player, Jamie Jagger?’
‘Jamie Jagger is Colt’s father.’
My hand flies to my chest, eyes popping. ‘He’s Colt’s dad? The Jamie Jagger? But there’s no resemblance at all.’ Jagger has bright blond hair and blue eyes.
The Harper Effect Page 14