by Sasha Wasley
‘This joyous novel truly is a spring clean for the soul.’
JOANNA NELL
‘A heart-grabbing Aussie story that doesn’t shy away from exploring complex family relationships, Spring Clean for the Peach Queen is a book to savour.’
RACHAEL JOHNS
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.
‘I loved this deeply moving, relevant novel ... about family, the ties that bind, chasing dreams, and what home really means. All the feels!’
TESS WOODS
‘A moving and engaging read from the first page to the last. Couldn’t put it down.’
JENNIE JONES
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Book Club Questions
Dedicated to young women in small towns
with big dreams.
For some it was the scent of peaches, but for me it was the inky tang of newspaper that conjured my childhood in Bonnievale. Other kids grew up among the stone-fruit orchards that made the town famous, playing in clouds of peach blossoms, taking time off school when extra hands were needed and learning to drive in rusty farm utes. Growing up, my parents’ newsagency was my second home. I spent my afternoons counting stock and selling scratchies and I never, ever ran short of school stationery.
I hadn’t been back to Bonnievale in almost a year. At the shire boundary, I passed the first stone-fruit tree planted in the region. It was clothed in green now, pink petals all flown away in the spring, and the visitors’ centre had put up a new sign telling the story of ‘The Olde Peach Tree’ – dubbed thus long ago by the townsfolk. The community were valiantly trying to rebuild the region’s reputation, declaring Bonnievale three years clear of peach spot at every opportunity. Bonnievale was a town in rehab – a ballet dancer sunk from former grace and beauty to something thin and weak, trying to relearn how to walk.
I tried Mum and Dad’s house first, but there were no cars in the driveway, so I sought them out at Rabbit’s Foot Lucky Lotto and News. The shop door was shut – the flies were always bad in late November – and a red Come In, We’re Open sign sat at eye level. I slipped through into the air conditioning, immediately scanning the magazine rack. It looked like I was in the clear.
It had only been a couple of weeks since I was on the front of more magazines than I’d once dared hope. But my parents would hardly display those covers, no matter what the locals wanted to read. As long as I was on magazines alongside full-page shots of Jai Carradine, the townsfolk would have to go to the co-op for their fix of celebrity news. The headlines had been variations on The Party That Took Jai’s Life and Oh, Jai! Oh, Why? I was just the inset – a small, grainy photo taken from the back as I sat on a limestone wall with my dress straps hanging down, Jai’s blond head just visible over my shoulder. Many had speculated that we were having a tender moment – or maybe even that hot, already-made-it Jai Carradine was on bended knee, proposing to up-and-comer Charlize Beste.
Others saw it for what it was: Jai licking my nipple. We were both intoxicated – me on shots and Champagne, Jai on the prescription–illicit combination that made him fall down and die three hours later. I had a faint memory of Jai stumbling as he brought me a glass of Champagne; me giggling as he landed face-first against my chest, spilling the drink. My friend Jordan screamed with laughter as Jai pulled down my dress to kiss the Champagne off my breast. A crazy, raunchy moment between a brand-new couple.
The media was unsure at first: were we star-crossed lovers on the brink of forevermore? Or was I the bad-girl hedonist who felled poor Jai Carradine in one nipple-sucking instant? My first ever topless photoshoot hit the stands two days later, and then it was clear to everyone what kind of girl I was. The cops asked me to stay in the city to give evidence at the inquest into Jai’s death. I hid in my apartment for those few weeks, and as soon as I had permission I packed up my gear, handed back my keys and went home to Bonnievale.
My name was not Charlize. It was Charlotte. It was not Beste, either. It was Bentz. Lottie Bentz, Bonnievale’s reigning Peach Queen, making an inglorious return. Tainted, just like all the other peaches in this town were for so many years.
I turned from the magazine stand and met my father’s eyes where he stood at the counter.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Lott. You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
He nodded slowly. ‘You home for the weekend?’
‘I thought I might stay for a few weeks, if that’s okay?’
Dad didn’t answer straight away. I held my breath.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Dad studied me, his weathered face slightly puzzled, as it always was when he looked at his eldest daughter. ‘How was the drive?’
‘Not bad. Where’s Mum?’
He gestured towards the doorway that led to the back room. My stomach twisted up another notch. Who cares? Who honestly cares? I drowned out my dread with that clear, confident inner voice that always got me through auditions and press interviews.
My mother appeared, stopping short when she caught sight of me. The shop door slid open and an old man came in, heading to the lotto counter. Taking advantage of the distraction, my mother swivelled and returned to the back room.
I gave Dad a tight smile and made my way out onto the street. Clearly, a conversation with my mother would have to wait.
And wait.
My mother did not speak to me, privately or otherwise, about anything at all. She cooked meals for me, left clean clothes on my bed and watched television beside me on the couch, all without speaking a word. She spoke to my younger s
ister on the phone, laughing at Liz’s stories of her job at the hospital, and she spoke to my father about an appointment with the bookkeeper and what needed tending in the garden. I caught her watching me from time to time, but not once did she directly address me.
I waited. I wanted to offer to help at the newsagency, but I couldn’t do that until she was talking to me again. The Rabbit’s Foot was the one place where Mum and I got along. When I was little, it was the books, meeting people and owning the best gel pen collection that attracted me to the shop. When I hit my teens, it was the magazines and earning money to buy clothes or nail varnish that lit my fire. Mum persisted in showing me new books each week, even after it became obvious that I was all about celebrity mags and social media.
Occasionally I would cave and read one of Mum’s suggestions, but it wasn’t reading that held us together; it was working in the newsagency. For some reason, Mum and I only got along when we had the shared focus of serving customers or stocking shelves. It was the only time we functioned.
It was a week before she finally cracked. Dad had gone to open the shop and Mum was tidying the kitchen before joining him – they took turns opening up every morning. My agent phoned for the umpteenth time and I took the call to get her off my back. I went outside, pacing the patio in tracksuit pants and an old T-shirt of my father’s.
‘I’ve been in touch with my PR contacts for advice.’ Kelsey spoke as patiently as a kindergarten teacher. ‘They said that refusing to speak to the media just fuels speculation.’
‘They’ll use anything I say however they want anyway, you know that.’ I scuffed at a weed trying to grow through the cracks in the paving. ‘What are they saying?’
‘Various things. What have you seen?’
‘Nothing. I deleted all my profiles. I’ve been offline.’
‘Yes, I saw you were in hiding – hold on. Deleted?’ A touch of panic entered Kelsey’s voice. ‘You mean, you deactivated? Temporarily?’
‘No, I deleted them.’
There was a sharp intake of air. ‘Charlize! Why?’ Kelsey sounded like she might cry.
‘I don’t know. I had to do something.’
‘Everyone expects you to lie low for a little while, but deleting all your social profiles? It took you ten years to build that following. Thousands and thousands of followers …’ She heaved a fretful sigh. ‘Well, perhaps we can still restore the profiles, and either way, the rebuild shouldn’t be as hard as the first time.’
‘I’m not sure I want to rebuild.’
‘Oh, sweetie. I understand, I do. It’s been a horrible few weeks. You need time to grieve for Jai—’
‘Jesus, Kelsey.’
‘You do,’ she said. ‘I know you say things weren’t serious, but you still need to grieve. Even if you and Jai were still getting to know each other, what happened was a horrific shock. Everyone at that party was traumatised, and you being the one who found him, you’d—’
‘I need to be left alone for a while.’
Kelsey paused. ‘By?’
‘Everyone. The media. People.’ I stopped myself from adding you.
An even longer pause. ‘Okayyyy. How long do you want me to give you?’
Forever. ‘Maybe a month or two?’
‘Um, Charlize, this might sound callous, but you’ve got an opportunity right now. The press wants to talk to you. I’ve had calls from casting agencies. I mean, I’ve told them you need a little time but …’
Normally I would have asked who’d called but this time I didn’t want to know. ‘Say two months, Kels. I’m going off the grid. I’ve vacated my apartment. I’m going to sell my car and stay in Bonnievale for a while. I’m switching off my phone, too.’
‘What? You’re what?’
I hoped the call would get cut off unexpectedly at that point, but it didn’t, no matter how much I willed it, so I pressed a button to end it instead. I hovered on the patio, picking at the fine green threads of weeds sprouting in one of my mother’s hanging pot plants. String of hearts, this plant was called; the pot had come from my great-grandmother after she died. When I turned back, Mum was watching me through the kitchen window.
I went inside. ‘Tea?’
Mum flicked on the kettle as though I’d given an imperious command. I went for cups and milk. Without exchanging a word, we made the water boil, the teabags steep, the teaspoons clink, then sat at the polished kitchen table together staring into our cups.
At last, she spoke. ‘I raised you to understand the notion of self-respect, Lottie.’
I kept my eyes on my cup.
‘I hoped I’d shown you what it meant to be a confident woman with belief in herself. With self-worth.’
I had clever answers on my tongue, but I dared not speak – not while she was this angry.
‘It’s not your involvement with drugs or that young man who died.’ My mother paused to steady her voice. ‘It’s those photos.’ She waited. I waited, too. ‘I mean, didn’t you think it was tacky, Lottie, those photos – just days after your friend passed away?’
I raised a defence. ‘I did the shoot for Jack the Lad months ago. They didn’t tell me when it was coming out.’
My mother gave me a hard look but the plaintive note in her voice didn’t match it. ‘Why?’
I fidgeted. Did she want an answer or was this a rhetorical question – part of her barrage? Her pointed waiting indicated the former.
‘It was a tactical decision,’ I said. ‘There were some racy roles coming up, roles I wanted. I didn’t want my girl-next-door image to hamper my chances.’
Her lip curled. ‘So you allowed your body to become masturbation fodder for the men who buy that magazine? You know that’s what they’ll be doing, Lottie, don’t you? Right now, somewhere, a man might be spoofing on your face.’
My mother saying ‘spoofing’ made me want to both vomit and laugh.
‘It’s not a Playboy spread, Mum. Jack the Lad isn’t porn – it’s a men’s mag. It was classier than that.’ Mum had always ensured The Rabbit’s Foot maintained a strict ‘no porn’ policy.
‘Classier?’ Her voice rose another octave. ‘Do you honestly believe that? Do you think there are men sitting around in smoking jackets in some gentlemen’s club, eating foie gras, drinking port and discussing the contrast and lighting in those photos of your boobs?’ She wiped her mouth – she was so angry she’d spat a little. ‘You know what you’ve done? You’ve put yourself permanently into the world as another pathetic dupe of the patriarchy.’ I opened my mouth but she raised a hand. ‘And don’t you dare give me any bullshit about it being empowering.’
I hadn’t been going to try that line with her – I wasn’t that stupid – but I thought the better of arguing. I sat through the long silence. If that silence had a colour, it would have been blue-green and translucent as a glacier wall.
At last I ventured a humble peace offering. ‘Could I help out at the shop?’
‘No.’ Her voice was a slap. ‘I can’t look at your face at the moment, Lottie. I’m too angry. It’s hard enough having you around home without having you at work as well.’ She kept her gaze on the polished jarrah of the table as if to illustrate her point. ‘If you really are going “off the grid” for a few weeks, then I suggest you improve your mind with some of the books on that shelf over there. Try something by Judith Butler or John Berger, as a start.’
She got to her feet to make a dignified exit, hampered only by the necessity of pouring the remainder of her tea down the sink and rinsing her cup. Mum hated coming home to an untidy kitchen. I stayed at the table, sipping tea, although it just seemed to slosh around in the hard-walled receptacle my stomach had become.
The front door closed behind her and I looked up at the composite of photos in a frame on the dining room wall. There was the one of me as the Peach Queen. I was surprised to note how much smaller I’d been back then. I was slim now – you had to be in show business – but the Lottie in that photo was ridiculously petite. My g
own had hung in soft folds from my hips, sweeping the floor, even with those ultra-high heels my mother had called ‘pure insanity’. The gown’s neckline plunged so deep I had to use invisible wardrobe tape to stick it to the inner edges of each breast. My hair trickled downwards from my up-do in curls as tender and lazy as honey dripping from a spoon. Elfin-me stood with Angus Brooker, my king. I’d quite liked Angus, heir to the oldest orchard farm in the region. But I knew, even at eighteen, that Angus was going nowhere – despite his charm, his smiling face and chocolate-coloured eyes. And he proved me right: he stayed on his farm and got married a year or so later.
Was I really capable of going off the grid? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the screen. I scrolled and swiped to remove email notifications, catching glimpses of their contents through preview panes.
Why aren’t u sad he died? Wot is wrong with—
You murdured Jai—
I’ve been doing the Kondo method for a week and—
I have to say, your tits are amazing—
Bitch you were shit in Offspring—
I kill you die you c**t—
Would you consider starring in my media project? It’s an arthouse—
Check out my 10-inch—
I’ve got a portfolio if you have a second to take—
Could you get Marie Kondo to like my posts—
Charlize I’ll f*ck you so hard and cum on—
I opened my phone and extracted the SIM, dropping the tiny card in between the sodden teabags and toast crusts in the kitchen bin, before following the prompts to do a factory reset. It asked if I was sure and warned me I would lose everything – all my photos, music, accounts, logins and messages.
I was sure.
Reset done, I put my phone into the fruit bowl. It sat there with apples, keys, rubber bands, dried banana stems and a shrunken lime. When I stepped away from the table, it felt like I had shed one layer of a tight skin.
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.
