by Sasha Wasley
‘I’m so glad you chose that dress,’ she answered.
She left me to it. I plugged in her curling tongs and sat down. I pinned up most of my hair with some of the insane number of bobby pins Mrs Brooker had in a little crystal basin. The tongs were ancient but they worked. Feeling like a little girl getting into mischief at her grandmother’s dressing table, I curled a few loose pieces of hair so that they hung softly around my face and neck.
In the mirror, my gaze wandered down to my scar. A bit of eyeliner didn’t mean I would be on the cover of a gossip magazine or involved in the death of another promising young actor. Before I could think too hard, I dug in the makeup drawer and applied a rosy lipstick. There was a kohl pencil sitting in there, so I used it to give my eyes smoky rims and enhanced them with grey and silver eye shadow. Oh, look – blusher. It was a sticky, shiny type instead of powder. I used a tiny bit, smudging it across my cheekbones, and dusted powder to reduce the shine. My fingers hovered over a concealer stick and I looked at my scar again, then closed the makeup case before I was tempted to cover it up.
I checked out all the costume jewellery and selected a pair of dangling silver earrings, so long they brushed my shoulders. I tried and failed to imagine Mrs Brooker wearing them. How much of the shoes and makeup and costume jewellery had been secret indulgence for her? I pulled on the heels. So comfortable. And gorgeous. Mrs Brooker really knew her stuff when it came to shoes. I stood back and checked myself out in the dressing table mirror.
I would have silenced whole rooms in the city with this outfit.
I went to the kitchen and presented myself, not meeting my mother’s eyes. ‘Oh, you look so beautiful, love,’ Mrs Brooker sighed.
‘I knew that frock would suit you.’ Pris’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if she hadn’t been urging me to wear the pink one. ‘Very racy.’ She raised her eyebrows to emphasise that racy was exactly what she had intended, even if she didn’t approve. I definitely couldn’t look at Mum now.
‘If you’re ready, we ought to go,’ Pris added. She peered at the water stain on her jacket and sighed, then bustled about with her basket and checked a sheaf of papers in a manila folder. ‘I’ll just nip to the toot,’ she said, and I wondered if that had been on a checklist. ‘You go and make sure Angus is ready.’ She vanished in the direction of the toilet.
‘I think I heard him go out the front,’ Mrs Brooker told me.
I checked Mum’s face at last. ‘Have a good night, Lottie,’ she said.
I couldn’t see any anger in her expression, even though I was all dressed up and about to hand over my Peach Queen crown. Progress?
‘Thanks. You, too. Enjoy the plum cake.’
‘Oh, we will!’ My mother smiled at Mrs Brooker.
I went out the front where Angus was tidying the back of the ute. In a pale shirt, pinstripe waistcoat and pants, wild hair tied back, angular cheeks shaved, Angus looked hotter than hell. He was the sexiest careless rockstar who’d ever existed, the most self-assured celebrity who didn’t give a shit about what the world thought. Except he was neither. He was Angus Brooker, despondent stone-fruit farmer. My heart bashed out a crazy beat, waiting for him to notice me.
Angus turned his head my way and froze, then moved a notch more to get a better look. I came closer on the starry heels, my gaze fixed on his ridiculously beautiful eyes all the way there. When I stopped before him, he took a long, very careful look that travelled over every inch of me before coming back up to my eyes.
‘Fu-u-uck me,’ he breathed.
‘I can’t, sorry,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Not with your policy.’
Angus’s smile was tinged with shock, but he treated himself to another full-body sweep.
‘I think I like you better in my gumboots,’ he said, just so he wasn’t totally outdone in the smart-arse arena.
I checked the open back seat. He’d placed a clean crocheted blanket over the dog hair but there were still some pruning tools, a fuel can and farming chemicals on the floor. He noticed my gaze and pulled out his farming gear, loading it into the ute tray to make more room.
‘I guess I’m in the back, if Pris is coming,’ I said.
‘No way.’ He came around and opened the passenger door, his eyes glued to me – my face, my dress, everything. Even if I didn’t care so much what I looked like these days, it took all my humility not to gloat. Angus’s hand was trembling – just a little – and when I climbed in he stayed there, gripping my hand. Only when Pris came bustling outside with Mrs Brooker and my mother trailing behind did he let go.
Pris glanced into the tray. ‘Good lord, Angus, why aren’t we going in the station wagon? Your tools could get stolen in the civic centre carpark, you know.’
‘I’ll cover them.’ He went to arrange a tarp over his gear. ‘The station wagon’s running rough.’
Pris loaded her basket into the back seat. It was stacked high with cellophane-wrapped thank you gifts and the twin peach blossom coronets in their clear boxes. She went automatically for the passenger seat but, realising I was already in there, turned mid-stride and made for the back seat instead, eyebrows only slightly elevated in offended surprise. Mrs Brooker stretched up to kiss Angus’s cheek as he finished strapping down the tarp.
‘Goodness, you look handsome, Angus. Both of you. Better than you did all those years ago when you were Peach King and Queen together.’
Angus’s eyes locked on me again but I shrugged off her words. ‘Older and wiser. Or at least older.’
‘I should take a photo,’ she said.
Pris heaved an impatient sigh, but Angus opened his phone camera and passed it to his mother, so I slipped back out of the car. We posed together and Mrs Brooker lined up the camera.
‘Do you want help, Caroline?’ my mother asked.
‘No, I’ve got it, I think. Move closer together,’ she called. We moved closer and Angus placed an arm around me, his big hand holding my waist. Hopefully he would crank up the car’s aircon when we got in, because I was starting to get quite warm. Mrs Brooker squinted at the phone screen. ‘I can’t see a thing with the glare, but I think it’s pointed at you,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Smile, Lottie.’
I smiled. She pressed the button and we heard the camera click.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Angus took his phone back. ‘And thanks, Penny,’ he added.
Mum nodded. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘We’d better get on,’ Pris called from the back seat.
‘Hang on, I haven’t shut the chooks away yet,’ Angus said. ‘I’ll just go—’
Pris almost choked. ‘You will not. You’ll make us late and there’ll be chicken muck on your shoes! We need to go now.’
‘I’ll do the chooks, love,’ Mrs Brooker said.
Angus closed my door after me, then jogged around to the driver’s side. He beeped the horn to farewell Mum and Mrs Brooker, and they waved as we bumped out of the driveway.
‘How’s this all working tonight?’ I asked Pris as we drew close to town. ‘When is the Peach Queen ceremony?’
‘As soon as dinner is finished, we’ll announce the winner. That reduces the risk of people having a skinful and getting rowdy during the ceremony. After the coronation, we’ll have sweets and dancing.’
‘Okay. What exactly do I need to do?’
She checked inside her manila folder. ‘You don’t have a speaking part, as such. After mains are cleared, Colin will introduce you and invite you up on the stage. You’ll thank Colin, then he will pass you the envelope. You’ll open it and make the announcement of the winner. When she comes up, Colin will pass you the coronet and you’ll place it on her head. Just use the little alligator clips to fix it onto her hair. We don’t want it to slip or fall off during the ceremony. That’s your part done. You’ll move to the back of the stage and Colin will congratulate her and invite her to make a speech.’
I was nodding but now I paused. ‘What if she hasn’t prepared a speech?’
‘We’ve inform
ed all the nominees that they should prepare one, just in case.’
‘How many were there?’ I asked.
‘Seven, in all.’
I smirked. The Peach Queen job used to get dozens of applicants. Now it got seven. I looked sideways at Angus and saw he was restraining a smile as well. Pris sensed our derision.
‘There wasn’t a lot of warning for people to apply,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘We’ve pulled this whole thing together in under six weeks, remember.’
‘Not enough time for prospective Peach Queens to lose a couple of dress sizes,’ I remarked. ‘Or their innate sense of self-worth, maybe.’
Pris was stern. ‘It’s an honour to be the Peach Queen – to represent Bonnievale’s main industry. You of all people ought to know that.’
We arrived at Toby and Jo’s farm and Angus hit the horn. Jo opened the door, waving at us in her pretty lavender gown. Behind her, baby Amelie was in the arms of a woman who must be Jo’s mother. Jo kissed them both, then picked her way across the gravel driveway to the ute.
‘Hi, all!’ she puffed, scrambling in beside Pris. ‘Hi, Pris. Pretty suit-thing you’ve got on. Angus, you look hawt. Lott, that dress looks specky on you.’ I returned the compliment and she wound down her window, put her fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle.
‘Tobes! Toby!’ she hollered. ‘Hurry up!’ Toby appeared in a grey suit, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He kept adjusting the waist of his pants. ‘He’s put on a few kilos,’ Jo explained with a laugh. ‘Hasn’t lost his baby weight yet. He’s feeling a bit self-conscious, I think.’
Toby tickled the baby and kissed his mother-in-law’s cheek before joining us. ‘Shit, mate,’ he said to Angus as he climbed in the back beside Jo. ‘I need a cold beer and we haven’t even started. Don’t know how some blokes wear shit like this day in, day out. Look at you,’ he added. ‘Shaved! Watch out, ladies, Brooker’s in town.’
We got there half an hour before pre-drinks, which gave Pris and me just enough time to arrange her gifts and prizes on a table and double check the sound equipment. Angus, Toby and Jo went to get drinks. Colin Dalgety glowered at us all from a distance. The other committee members began arriving and I was made redundant by all their organising energy, so I went back to my table.
‘Champers, Lott?’ Jo had already got me a glass and she handed it over.
People began to pour in. It was a free bar for your first drink, so people were devising ways to beat the system, girls going up to get a wine and a ‘beer for my boyfriend’, then sending the boyfriend to do the same thing. The crowd was loud and buzzing, a mix of out-of-towners and locals. People were dying to dance, girls wiggling their hips to the background music as they sipped drinks. We were joined at our table by a couple of Toby and Jo’s friends and the conversation was good fun. Jo pointed out Nathan Dalgety in a top hat and tails.
‘Look at Peacock Dalgety. Reckons he’s the town mayor. I hear he’s got a bet running on who gets to shag the Peach Queen tonight,’ she said, her voice full of disgust.
Angus turned to look at Nathan, contempt in his face.
‘Christ.’ I scowled. ‘As soon as she gets crowned, I’m going to warn her.’
‘Some chicks might be flattered,’ Toby said.
I opened my mouth to argue but closed it again. He might be right. Jesus.
‘Oh, Toby. Chicks aren’t flattered by contests to shag them,’ Jo said, quite decisive. ‘You should definitely warn her, Lott.’
A round-faced young woman introduced herself to me as Gemma di Bortoli. She had a photographer in tow and they asked for a couple of shots, so I stood and smiled directly at the camera, telling myself this would all be over soon enough. Then Jo got the photographer to take more photos, slinging an arm around my neck and raising her champagne glass to the camera. She dragged Toby and Angus in as well, then requested full-table photos. Jo had a gift, I decided. She made everyone feel included. She made me feel normal.
When Gemma and her colleague moved on, a couple of young women approached our table to say a tentative hello and ask for photos with me. I posed and smiled and chatted with them, and they raved about how ‘nice’ I was, thanking me for making the effort. This was all so strange. I didn’t feel like a sham and I wasn’t scared of the publicity, either. Maybe I could get through this. I thought back to my mother’s demeanour before we left the farm. It was almost as though she was starting to think I wasn’t one hundred per cent a disappointing dumb bunny after all. Did this dress have freaking superpowers or something?
Dinner was what it was: a cost-effective catered meal in a civic centre; edible but nothing more. Blokes devoured it and then stole leftovers off their girlfriends’ plates. At the end of the main course, Colin Dalgety heaved himself up onto the stage. Pris gesticulated at me until I stood and made my way up to join him. She had arranged for Colin to call up the ‘finalists’: seven in total. This was a master stroke. Every single nominee got to think of herself as a real contender. The young woman who worked at St Edna’s was among them. Her name was Angela and she wore a pale apricot gown and a slightly startled expression. Angela for Peach Queen! I thought in wild hope.
Colin finished introducing them all and looked around for me. ‘I’d like to invite Bonnievale’s own celebrity starlet up to the stage now. Miss Lottie Bentz, better known to many of you as Charlize Beste, is our longest-reigning Peach Queen, since she was the last one we crowned before our annual Harvest Balls went on hiatus. Charlize has been in such television programs as …’ he checked his notes ‘… Neighbours and Offspring, and major stage productions of The Wizard of Oz and West Side Story. She’s recently come back to Bonnievale for a holiday and we’re lucky enough to have her here tonight to pass on the crown. Very fitting, indeed. Please welcome Miss Beste to the stage.’
I climbed the steps, holding up the hems of my dress so as to avoid a viral YouTube stumble. There was a wolf whistle and I was chagrined for a moment, but then I realised it was Jo. She was smiling at me, thumbs up. I laughed back at her.
Colin had the nerve to put an arm around me and I flashed back to his unwelcome affection at the last ball. ‘So, Charlize—’
‘Lottie.’ I moved my shoulders into a tense position that made it difficult for him to keep his hold and took advantage of the proximity of his microphone. ‘Thank you for the warm welcome, Colin.’
‘Er, yes, so Charlize – Lottie – it must have opened doors for you, winning the Peach Queen crown all those years ago.’
I heard a mutter from the audience that included the words ‘opened legs, too’ and ‘Jack the Lad’. There was some muffled laughter. Well, what had I expected? I looked at the seven young hopefuls before me. There wasn’t one woman over twenty in the running and some looked as young as sixteen.
I took hold of the microphone clutched in Colin’s sweaty hand. He hung onto it but allowed me to speak. ‘Colin, the title’s what you make it, in the end. Being Peach Queen was certainly a confidence boost. Unfortunately, I didn’t make enough of the role. I could have helped Bonnievale more. I could have done more to support local charities in their fundraising and to grow their profiles. I could have spoken to the media about the bacterial spot issues we were facing at the time and raised awareness so that the government and agricultural organisations helped us out a bit more. It really is a great opportunity—’ Colin had been subtly pulling the microphone away from me for a few moments, so I finished off in a hurry ‘—a great opportunity to build your self-worth and give back to your community.’ I gazed earnestly at the seven young women in front of me. They smiled up at me, although I wasn’t sure if it was obedient smiling or empowered smiling.
Colin was an experienced showman. He acted as if my words were all part of the proceedings. ‘That’s exactly right – just as Charlize said, the Peach Queen crown can take you great places indeed. Now, I see some young ladies champing at the bit before me here, so I’d say it’s time to announce the winner. It’s been a very diff
icult decision. The nominees were of an extremely high calibre and it was difficult just narrowing it down to the lovely young ladies you see before me, let alone choosing the ultimate winner. But one winner there has to be, so without further ado, I’ll ask Miss Beste to open the envelope and make the announcement of our new Peach Queen.’
I was handed an envelope. My heart felt as if it were stretching, reaching for these young women. I wanted to shout at them to go, escape, live their lives without some stupid flower crown to validate their existence.
I accepted the microphone being proffered by Colin Dalgety and made a blindingly quick decision.
‘Just before I announce the new Peach Queen, it’s the perfect time to let everyone know that this will be the last time we have a Peach Queen in Bonnievale.’ Colin made a choking sound beside me. ‘It’s time we moved on as a community and made the honour more equitable. From next year, the position will be known as – as Peach Ambassador, a special role that involves being a spokesperson for our amazing stone-fruit growing region.’
Beside me, Colin was checking Pris’s face to see if this was in the script. She was at the side of the stage, holding the blossom coronet and staring at me in open-mouthed horror.
‘And it will be open to women and men,’ I added. A ripple of interest went through the room – some scoffing and laughter, but a couple of claps as well. I reached into the envelope. ‘The person with the honour of being our final Peach Queen is …’ I whipped out the card ‘… Rebecca Batich.’
Rebecca, the dark-haired daughter of the Batich clan who ran the orchard supplies store, made a surprised face and came up to accept her honours. I handed Colin the microphone and took the coronet from Pris to place it on Rebecca’s gleaming dark head, using the clips so it wouldn’t fall off.
‘Does that feel okay? I asked quietly. ‘It’s not pulling?’
‘It’s fine.’ She grinned at me.
‘Congratulations.’ I hugged her gently.
‘Thanks.’
I retired to the back of the stage. Colin went through the reasons Rebecca had been selected and Pris glared at me until she had no glare left. I ignored her, counting moments until I could get off the stage. On my table, Angus was grinning at me. When our eyes met he raised a fist in a ‘fight the power’ gesture. I returned it subtly and saw him laugh, even at a distance. Rebecca finished her speech and the photographer took pictures of her with me and Colin. Dessert was announced.
