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Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

Pantera Presserschienen am01.07.2021
Twelve years had passed since the last Harvest Ball. I was just eighteen when my hometown crowned me their Peach Queen with a blossom coronet. And I was eighteen when I left. One tanked career, one badly timed glamour shoot and one dead boyfriend later, thirty-year-old Lottie Bentz is finally going home. Back in the orchard town of Bonnievale, Lottie embarks on a radical declutter of her life, Marie Kondo-style. She casts out everything that got her into trouble: her phone, socials, make-up and a tendency to tell little white lies - to herself and others. But home has its own issues, not least Lottie's staunchly feminist mother, who is furious with her. When Lottie lands herself a place to stay in exchange for helping kindly Mrs Brooker try out the Kondo method, it seems like the perfect farm escape. That's until Angus, Lottie's former Peach King and heir to the Brooker orchards, makes it clear she's not welcome - especially when Lottie's declutter begins to stir up long buried memories and half-truths. As Lottie finds her way back to herself, can she use her talents to coax Bonnievale and the Brookers out of the past? After all, everyone deserves to feel love, hope and the occasional spark of joy. A deeply moving story about forgiving, forgetting and falling in love with life again.

Sasha Wasley lives and writes in Perth, Western Australia. After completing a degree in feminist literature at CURTIN university in 2006, Sasha went on to become a copywriter and Ambassador for the Books in Homes Australia charity, which provides books of choice for disadvantaged children.mehr

Produkt

KlappentextTwelve years had passed since the last Harvest Ball. I was just eighteen when my hometown crowned me their Peach Queen with a blossom coronet. And I was eighteen when I left. One tanked career, one badly timed glamour shoot and one dead boyfriend later, thirty-year-old Lottie Bentz is finally going home. Back in the orchard town of Bonnievale, Lottie embarks on a radical declutter of her life, Marie Kondo-style. She casts out everything that got her into trouble: her phone, socials, make-up and a tendency to tell little white lies - to herself and others. But home has its own issues, not least Lottie's staunchly feminist mother, who is furious with her. When Lottie lands herself a place to stay in exchange for helping kindly Mrs Brooker try out the Kondo method, it seems like the perfect farm escape. That's until Angus, Lottie's former Peach King and heir to the Brooker orchards, makes it clear she's not welcome - especially when Lottie's declutter begins to stir up long buried memories and half-truths. As Lottie finds her way back to herself, can she use her talents to coax Bonnievale and the Brookers out of the past? After all, everyone deserves to feel love, hope and the occasional spark of joy. A deeply moving story about forgiving, forgetting and falling in love with life again.

Sasha Wasley lives and writes in Perth, Western Australia. After completing a degree in feminist literature at CURTIN university in 2006, Sasha went on to become a copywriter and Ambassador for the Books in Homes Australia charity, which provides books of choice for disadvantaged children.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9780648676959
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Erscheinungsjahr2021
Erscheinungsdatum01.07.2021
Seiten344 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse3101
Artikel-Nr.11934251
Rubriken
Genre9200

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe


Without social media, email, private messages, celebrity news sites and Googling, there were more hours in the day than I d ever realised before. My parents had everything running in a tight routine since Elizabeth and I had moved out of home, so there was no housework to keep me busy. I avoided television, scared I might see people I knew. I didn t want any reminders. Or envy.

A couple of years back, someone told me about Marie Kondo s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying, and I became an advocate of her method. I had never read the book or watched the show; I just saw what other people were doing on social media, skimmed a couple of blog posts and joined in the movement. As far as I could tell, I just had to get rid of crap that didn t give me a spark of joy. I built some buzz on my socials about preparing for a massive apartment declutter and gained a bunch of new Instagram followers. I banished my housemate Jordan to her room and took before pictures, then hid all our junk in cupboards for the after shots. Everything was white surfaces and tiny succulents. A Nordic wooden bowl. Pink roses I d stolen from someone s garden, arranged perfectly in a spotless glass vase. It all created the impression of an apartment so pure and clean it would make you weep with joy. I based a whole series of posts on my faux-declutter project, diligently using hashtags and tagging Marie Kondo herself. She - or it could have been her PR team - rewarded me by hitting the heart button on one of my posts.

Now, with time to kill, I decided to try a declutter for real in my childhood bedroom. I drove my little red car into town to pick up a roll of garbage bags from the co-op. I was still toying with the idea of selling my car. It felt noticeable in this town where everyone drove utes or four-wheel drives, usually white. I d paid off my car loan a couple of years ago when a brief phase of responsible financial management coincided with a good artist s fee on a stage show. If I sold it at a decent price and bought something cheaper it might give me enough money to survive on for a few months.

I bought the binbags and emerged from the co-op, contemplating the Rabbit s Foot. My mother s words ran through my head, so I went into the Peach Pit coffee shop instead. There was a photo of me on the wall alongside other celebrities who d frequented the place over the years. I was barely even B-grade but my local ancestry gave me a leg-up onto the Peach Pit wall of fame. I waited in the line for mid-morning coffee, pretending not to see the people who repeatedly glanced my way. I recognised a couple of faces - one guy from my school days - but I certainly didn t want to talk to anyone. Not now.

Maxine who owned the café didn t freeze me out. Maxine never turned her nose up at a sale. She d even given wall space to that racist politician who came through town, just under a photo of Georgie Parker.

Hi, Lottie, she said. Or is it Charlize?

Everyone in the café stopped to listen. Who even cares?

Lottie s good, I said clearly.

What can I get you? Maxine s voice was perpetually raspy, as though she d been at a rock concert the night before.

Flat white, please.

Have here or takeaway?

The staring was not going anywhere. Takeaway.

I survived the wait for my coffee and fought my way through the plastic fly strips at the front door. There was a woman sitting on the bench along the coffee shop s front wall, watching the postie empty a mailbox. I sat down beside her. It was quiet. Kids were in school; the summer holidays just around the corner.

I felt the woman s gaze on me and glanced her way. It was Mrs Brooker. She was a friend of my mum, the Peach King Angus s mother and former office staff at the Bonnievale High School. Mrs B, we d called her.

I shot her a quick smile, steeling myself for a snub.

Good morning, love, she said. Or is it afternoon already?

I had no way of checking, so I squinted at the sunlight on the street. I think it s still morning. Just.

The woman took off her glasses, polished them, then put them back on. She returned her blue eyes to mine. Aren t you a friend of my Angus?

Well, I haven t seen him in a while, but yes, we were at school together.

Mrs Brooker s gaze wandered over my face. Peach Queen, she said.

Lottie Bentz.

Penny s daughter.

Mum and Mrs Brooker were mismatched as friends. It had never made sense to me: my tightly wound mother with her critical view of the world, and this gentle farmer s wife who fussed over you in the school office if you d run out of tampons. Maybe they knew each other from the newsagency. Lotto player? Magazine buyer? Mrs Brooker didn t strike me as your typical follower of celebrity gossip, but she d probably still heard my story around town. I sipped my coffee.

Why do you look so glum, love?

I m fine. I gave a performance of cheery togetherness.

She examined me. I don t think so.

I fidgeted with my cup. It s been a rough few weeks, I admitted, and she nodded. You - you know what happened? I checked her face.

Yes, of course.

Mum s not happy with me. It s making things tense at home.

Mrs Brooker nodded again. I m sure she ll get over it, given a little time.

I stared at the Rabbit s Foot across the street. I m not sure she s capable of forgiving me. She can t even look me in the eye.

Time heals all wounds.

We only had moments to enjoy Mrs Brooker s platitude before a Pepsi truck rolled in and parked a short way down the road. We watched as a man unloaded boxes of soft-drink cans, stacked them on a trolley and wheeled them into the coffee shop. A kelpie hung out of the truck window, looking worriedly after its owner. During the height of the peach spot infection, most of Bonnievale s businesses had shut down or gone into debt, including the Peach Pit. Mum and Dad barely scraped through, mostly because the farmers were desperately buying lotto tickets. On my trips home throughout those years Bonnievale had felt like a ghost town - the only queues you saw were at Centrelink.

Why don t you find yourself a project, love? Mrs Brooker said, bringing her attention back to me. Something to take your mind off things. Something useful.

I asked if I could help at the newsagency but Mum said no. There was something about Mrs Brooker that invited confessions. Maybe it would be better if I just moved on from Bonnievale.

You can come stay at my place while things blow over, she said. I laughed but Mrs Brooker regarded me steadily. On the farm, she added. I have a caravan out the back. It s empty.

Thanks, Mrs B, but I couldn t do that.

Why not?

I shrugged. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.

Just because it s in a caravan, doesn t mean you re not lying in your own bed. Mrs Brooker checked that her purse was still beside her and glanced at the Pepsi truck. And it would give you a project.

What project? Do you have things you need done?

She tinkled a little laugh. It s a farm, love. There s always something to be done.

I forced a smile. I really appreciate that, especially considering â¦

I take people at face value, Lottie. Right now, you just look like a sad girl who could use a bit of help. The caravan s there, and so is the offer.

I put on the bright smile and strong voice again. Thanks.

A sturdy middle-aged woman stepped out of the bank next door to the Peach Pit. Her face was also familiar but I couldn t place her.

She stopped before us, giving Mrs Brooker a stern look. Caroline, here you are. You should have waited inside.

It s much nicer out here, said Mrs Brooker.

I stood. It was good to see you again, Mrs B.

Goodbye, love.

The other woman stared at me. She was giving me flashbacks to community fêtes and street appeals - churchie do-gooder vibes - so I made my retreat. I walked along the street, sipping my coffee and looking in shop windows. There was the real estate agency. I perused the local rentals but it was all family homes in the residential estate, and anyway, I didn t have an income any more. Next was Gonzo s Toys and Games, now known as Bonnievale Toyworld. Mum used to take me there. She tried to encourage me to get Lego or doctor kits but all I wanted was tiaras and karaoke sets. It had closed during the peach spot years and the owner had switched to online adult-toy sales, but he reopened the beloved store when things picked up around Bonnievale...
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