![]() ![]() So the bestselling author of The Dry and three other novels, her husband, Peter, and their two children – Charlotte, who turns six on the day after her new book, Exiles, is published, and two-year-old Ted – are making the best of it in their sunny front room.Īs we sit at the table with mugs of tea, Jane is keeping an eye on Zoe, the family’s all-white cat, who’s cavorting on top of the ceiling-high bookshelves, threatening to dislodge all that’s up there. ![]() They aren’t due to finish until the end of March next year – Jane sighs at the prospect – but she’s clinging to the faint hope they might be swifter. Yes, I have crossed the threshold, but there has been an invasion of builders who are demolishing a substantial chunk of the back of the house as part of renovations. On that occasion she sat in splendid isolation in her back room, but despite the absence of restrictions there’s no chance of me joining her there today. We were supposed to be having lunch together, but with restrictions in force I played the role of the person from Uber Eats: I picked up our food from a nearby restaurant, passed over her dish as she stood at her front door, and hurried home so we could reconnect via Zoom. T he last time I saw Jane Harper was during one of Melbourne’s many lockdowns. ![]() This story is part of the September 11 Edition of Sunday Life. ![]()
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