The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘Not a koala in sight,’ says a voice with a rumble of laughter beneath it. I spin around and for a moment I forget how to blink.

  After maybe a hundred years, I throw both arms around his neck. He lifts me and crushes me against him. He smells like Colt, and he feels like Colt, and he is Colt.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say mid-air. My belly shimmies.

  He sets me down. ‘I’m playing in some tennis tournament. Forget what it’s called. You?’ I move to cuff him and he captures my hand, grips it, and guides me back up the jetty. He’s in running clothes and there’s the shape of another tennis ball in his pocket. ‘Coffee?’ His face floods with that smile.

  ‘The park café isn’t open yet. Believe me, I’ve checked.’ I search around like maybe an espresso bar might materialise – I’m not sure what else to do. He hasn’t let go of my hand.

  ‘Shall we find another café?’ he asks. It’s as if he’s forgotten we haven’t spoken in four months.

  I can’t take him yo-yoing in and out of my life. I pull my hand away.

  Colt grabs the back of his neck, dips his chin.

  Before I can demand to know why he’s here, a group of runners blur around us. We get jostled and Colt stands in front of me until the joggers thin out. Stepping off the concrete path out of their way, he pulls me with him. I continue to watch the stragglers. When I cut back to Colt, his gaze combs my face. My heart quivers. I can’t ask the big question – not yet.

  ‘Heard you bumped into Aria in Rome.’ I fondle the petals of a rose on the bush beside us. ‘I heard a lot of things, actually – you’ve climbed the rankings like a boy in a tree. You’ve even got a nickname. And you’ve married at least ten fans. Plus you’ve moved to Florida –’

  ‘That last bit’s not true,’ he says.

  ‘And the married ten times bit is?’

  ‘In some countries I believe they all count.’ Colt’s grin fades.

  He checks behind us and nudges a thumb in the direction of a thicket of trees. I walk beside him, feeling like my heart’s being choked to death.

  ‘I heard you’re doing pretty well too,’ he says, stringing a smile onto his lips. ‘Ranked 29? And Aria tells me the two of you are back on track.’

  My eyes bolt to him. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Aria and I’ve exchanged a few texts.’ He glances away.

  I wrap my arms around myself. ‘Yup,’ I croak. ‘Aria and I are all good. She’s fallen in love with a Frenchman.’ I can barely hear the words through the pounding in my ears.

  ‘Yes she has. I met him. They were Romeo and Juliet.’ We walk further into the woods, the temperature cooler, the path narrowing, the green canopy thickening. ‘I missed you.’ His voice is low, coaxing. He stops. But I can’t.

  Arms helmeting my head I blink up into the sky and keep walking. I want to be in his arms, but the hurt of the past few months –

  ‘You me. Me you. Forever,’ he says from behind, quoting my code back to me.

  I swivel to him. When he treads closer I stay inside his gaze, chest rising and falling rapidly.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he whispers, near my ear. I make a series of small nods because I can’t trust myself to speak, and when he braces my hips, kisses my neck below the ear, it’s like my body is string and all the string just got twisted and muddled into a knotty ball in his palms.

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you back?’ My voice is like sandpaper.

  Dark eyes delve into mine. Longing leaps off him and straight into me.

  But I’m shaking and pushing him away, needing space – and air. ‘I can’t go through you leaving again.’ I turn away, frantically attempting to slot my thoughts into the right order.

  He draws beside me. ‘Let’s walk.’ The two words are doused with worry.

  After several tongue-tied moments, we halt at the sight of an enormous willow tree. Its bright green branches sweep the ground as if it were a shifting, living hill. The boughs sway in the breeze and I walk forward, arms outstretched, parting the leafy vines and stepping inside the green cave. I hear Colt follow.

  The tree is old and growing on a slant, the thickest branch almost sweeping the ground. I outline a knot in the trunk that resembles an open wound, then press down on the smooth, flat surface of a branch once pruned away.

  ‘I’m not planning on leaving – unless you want me to,’ Colt says.

  It’s all I’ve wanted to hear him say, but will he stay this time? I’m just getting back on my feet and the thought of another goodbye –

  ‘Maybe it’s better that you do.’ I slowly propel myself around. He’s too close. I back up against the low branch, lift myself onto it. His gaze tries to hijack mine, but I stare into the canopy above. The sunlight sparkles; stars in the leaves.

  ‘Choosing not to be with you was the hardest choice I have ever made,’ he says, fiercely. ‘You’d become the skin that held me together.’

  ‘Why did you choose to leave me then?’ My eyes claw at his.

  ‘I had nothing left to give you because I felt so broken.’ Colt’s voice fractures. ‘You were peaking and there was no way I was going to bring you down with me. And when Milo admitted how he could’ve stopped Dad going on that court – it was too much. I didn’t blame Milo, but the thought that one different choice could’ve changed everything – I had to put some distance between us. I realise now that my dad was always going to kamikaze his way out of tennis.’

  It’s my turn to speak, but I can’t; my throat is filled with a heart floating with hope.

  ‘I had to be sure you were sure,’ he continues, hardly a step away. ‘I had to be sure that when it was okay for you to go to Jacob, you didn’t. And I had to be sure I was strong enough to move forward without you before I could do it with you. Then, after a while, I thought you’d never forgive me for leaving. I thought you’d moved on – you were flying so high without me – and it was better to leave you alone – until I got your code.’

  I slap a palm over my mouth to stop the sob of relief, eyes begging him to hold me. He bounds forward and wraps himself around me, burying his face in my neck. He lifts me off the branch, and when he sets me down our foreheads touch. ‘I never stopped loving you,’ he murmurs. ‘And I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

  My smile feels indelible. ‘I’m sure. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers into my hair. ‘I wanted all of you, not just a piece of you. And you can have all of me now, because I know I’m not another Jamie Jagger.’

  Love beats in his eyes. He bends to kiss me.

  And the world turns purple.

  I shock even myself with the risks I take on court at Wimbledon. The spectators can’t stay in their seats. The chance-taking and bold gambles send me all the way to the quarter-finals where I bomb out, but not before earning the nickname ‘Lionheart’.

  When Colt beats Sanchez to win the Wimbledon singles title I race down the stadium steps, jumping a block in one leap and vaulting over the barrier. Colt’s laughing and covering his face with his hands, disbelief gushing off him.

  In the post-match conference Colt is asked if the Bolt from the Blue is going straight to number one. Colt looks around the room until he locks onto me, standing to the side. ‘Do you mind if I do that tomorrow?’ he says, grinning. ‘I need to spend some time with my girlfriend.’

  If you’re a writer, you’ve probably flicked to this page first to read the acknowledgements. I’m making a wish that you decide to read the novel, too. But if you’re a reader, it’s likely you’ve just finished reading my first ever published novel. And for that, I’m both humbled and excited. Thank you! I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it for you.

  It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to become a writer, but the thing I’ve learned about dreams is that it’s pretty hard to make them come true all by yourself. The people wh
o helped me are, in my imagination, my Dreamweavers; they each held a thread which, when weaved together, created a dream come true.

  The first Dreamweaver I wish to thank is my agent, Tara Wynne. Thank you for believing in my work enough to take me under your wing. While we became the two T’s, you will always be T1. Thank you also to my Australian publisher, Claire Craig, for taking a chance on a new writer and making this whole process feel so magical. And thank you to the rest of the team at Pan Macmillan especially Georgia Douglas who speaks the same language as me when it comes to words and smooshing. Also high fives to Brianne Collins, Mel Feddersen, Kylie Mason and Clare Keighery. You definitely became the dream team. Also thank you to the sales people and distributors and book sellers behind the scenes, always working on my behalf without expecting to see their names here.

  Thank you to my agent in New York, Katelyn Detweiler, and to my US publisher, Alison Weiss, and to your stunning colleagues who also believe in me. I can’t believe I’m blessed with two more dream teams. Katelyn, you keep me grounded and sane with insightful and savvy writing advice, while Alison makes me believe that I can fly thanks to her positivity and enthusiasm. It’s a perfect combo. Hugs.

  Other people who held important threads in making this all happen include my amazing friends in the Stiff Wigs Writing Group, acronym SWWiG, although we mostly swigged on tea. Thank you Alison Quigley, Debbie Smith and Brenda Kelly for your honesty, wisdom and commitment.

  The same goes for my critique partners and beta readers: Sandy Fussell, Kat Colmer, Ellie Royce, Beth Amos, Anna Carew-Miller, Elizabeth Kasmer. Also thanks to the stars and back to early mentor, Laura Bloom, and then Emily Martin who loved Harper enough to pick me from hundreds.

  There are too many people to thank within the CYA Conference and the SCBWI, but each of you knows who you are. Thank you for being a friend, a supporter, and a motivator. And to the organisers of these writing conferences – thank you for making so many people’s castles in the sky become a reality. Ditto Brenda Drake of Pitch Wars USA.

  A special mention should go to Varuna House, whose incredible work and residencies led me to meeting amazing friends and to finding a publisher. A friend I met there once suggested I buy myself a ‘WRITER’ mug to drink tea from, to instil in my own mind that I am a writer. See, every word of advice helped weave the dream.

  By now you can see how many Dreamweavers are required to make a dream come true. The list is long, but the following people provided some pretty important threads. Thank you to Ella and Eric, for all the times you wanted to disturb me in the writing room, but didn’t. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for your love and support. I hope you’ve learned that by believing in yourself, and never giving up, the seemingly impossible can become possible.

  Thank you to Mark for blindly following me into all this, and for never having any doubts.

  And finally, thank you to my mum and dad for making books and writing a part of my life from day dot. Thanks to you I became addicted to the smell and touch of books, and to the stories inside. Thanks to you I never ran out of coloured pens so that I could rainbow write my early stories. Thanks to you I can type at 80wpm so my fingers can keep up with my thoughts.

  And to Andrew – for all the Smurf stories. And Denise and Robin who put me up for a month so I could write, even though that book remains unfinished.

  There’s more; just to say I almost always write with music in the background, so thank you to Adele, Josh Groban, Backstreet Boys, Pavarotti, Pink, James Blunt and Snow Patrol, for writing songs that help me find my muse. It takes a lot of diverse threads to weave a dream.

  I hope to become a Dreamweaver for every one of you, as well as for all those I couldn’t mention due to the need to stick to a word limit.

  About Taryn Bashford

  Taryn Bashford lives the typical writer’s life with a supportive husband, busy children, and characters from her latest book insisting they help make dinner. Taryn has been an English literature honours student, a media manager and CEO of an internet company, but writing is her first love. When not at her writing desk, Taryn can be found training for triathlons or chasing adrenaline rushes – during her last writer’s retreat, she found herself dangling on an abseiling rope 2000m above the ground. The Harper Effect is Taryn’s first novel.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations

  mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe

  actual conduct.

  First published 2017 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

  Copyright © Taryn Bashford 2017

  The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  The author and the publisher have made every effort to contact copyright holders

  for material used in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been

  overlooked should contact the publisher.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available

  from the National Library of Australia

  http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  EPUB format: 9781760558581

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group

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