On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke in a foul mood.
Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay still, eyes closed, talkingno, bitterly admittingthe truth of her miserable existence. «Fifty tomorrow! Half a century! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard. Married young. Never strayed. Raised a good daughter who, naturally, married young too. Eighteen years at the same school, teaching geographytelling children about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, by some miracle, the Atlantic crashes into my garden and drags the Great Wall of China with it. But God forbidtheyd litter the ocean and graffiti the Wall within a day. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me, hate my subject. Whats the point? Why should they care about countries theyll never visit? Geographys a joke to them, and they dont bother hiding it.
Im beautiful, in that quiet way no one mentionsthe kind where they say, Shes kind, keeps a lovely home. A ripened tomato, pink with a faint tan. My hair? Mousey grey, nothing poetic about it. And my husband? A complete idiot. Literally. John went to visit his motherGod knows whyin some godforsaken village at the other end of the country. Ate half a trees worth of unripe pears and missed his train back. Not metaphorically. The next one isnt for a week.
Our daughter? Off gallivanting in Japan with her husband. Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free! So here I am, alone on my birthday. A fool for a husband, a daughter who cares more about free holidays than her own mother. No one loves me. No one respects me. Im just there to feed them and hand out passing marks.»
With these bleak thoughts, Margaret dragged herself out of bed, shoved her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in step, was her plump little pug, Gucciher daughters idea of a gift. The only Gucci shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. The first post was an ad: *»Only today! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Led by self-proclaimed life coach Victor Holloway. Learn to love yourself, stop caring what others think! (Results not guaranteed.) Watch as each participant births her inner princess LIVE! Starts in 30 minutes.»*
«This is it!» Margaret thought, desperation clawing at her. «This could change everything! What have I got to lose?» She clicked, plunging into the absurdity of self-reinvention.
No one knows exactly what happened in that webinarshe hadnt paid for spectator accessbut by the end, when Victor Holloway declared, «You deserve to rebirth yourself!» Margaret looked different. As if shed yanked out some monstrous princess through the very place her haemorrhoids throbbed.
She was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timenew habits, self-improvement, reshaping how others see you. Victor had mumbled something about months. But Margaret didnt have months. She wanted to greet her fiftieth as a princess, not a sad, overripe tomato.
And when theres a will, theres always a disastrous shortcut.
The next twenty-four hours were chaos. The newborn princess was ravenous, devouring Margarets old self whole. She googled beauty trends, obsessed over Instagram models, and emerged with:
— Eyelash extensions.
— Acrylic nails.
— Stiletto heels.
— Denim shorts with «GUCCI» scrawled across the back.
— A crop top reading «WILD BABE SINGLE TONIGHT!» with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue. (Unhealthy shade? Probably fashionable.)
She binge-watched micro-courses: *»Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,» «Pole Dancing for Beginners,»* and *»Advanced Flirting»* (free with purchase). The princess decreed her new nameTrixieand hissed at any protest about dignity, marriage, or teaching. «Tomorrow,» Trixie sneered, «youll wake up next to a ripped millionaire after a night of passion. Then well talk about shopping*real* Gucci.»
Margarets last whimper of resistance drowned under Trixies cackling laughter.
Then came the bar.
The local dive, aptly named *The Pub*, shuddered as Trixie strutted in, wobbling on her stilettos. One *Sex on the Beach* later, the night blurred.
Morning arrived with a jackhammer in her skull and a dreadful ache in her legs. The hangover had sobered somethingTrixie was barely a whisper. Margaret cracked an eye open, then slammed it shut.
Hallucinating.
Her former studentdim-witted, chronically truant Billy Carterstood in her doorway in nothing but boxers.
«Christ, what a nightmare,» she croaked.
«Morning, Miss Elizabeth! Not a nightmare. Dave and Mike are crashed on your sofa. We dragged you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?»
Margaret groaned, patting herself under the blanket. Shorts? Check. Top? Check. No bra.
Billy cleared his throat. «We, uh, didnt touch nothing. Just put you to bed as-is. Well head off unless you need us.»
Relief flooded her. No scandal. No tabloid headlines.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
She rasped, «Hello?»
A mans voice: «Miss Elizabeth? Its TommyTommy Green, remember? From school? You left your passport at my pub last night. And, uh your bra. Can drop em off laterplumbers coming to fix the pipes.»
«Tommy! Sweet boy! You own a pub now? So proud!»
«Er, about that You sort of broke the bar. Danced on it. Then tried to swing from a pipe. It snapped.»
Trixie recoiled, scrambling back into the abyss. Margarets heart lurchedreverse rebirth hurt.
«Tommy, love, Ill pay for everything!»
«Dont be daft! You were my favourite teacher! Just got back from Spaintold my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! Im making a steel bar now. Dance on it anytime!»
The call ended. Another rang instantly.
Her daughter, weeping apologies. «Mum, Im pregnant! If its a girl, were naming her Margaret!»
Margaret sobbed, begging her to kiss the father.
Then John calledhitching a ride home with a trucker. «Love you, darling. Getting you a fur coat tomorrow. A beauty like you deserves one.»
She cried harder. «I dont need a coat. I need *you*.»
Showered and tea in hand, she sank onto the sofa, stroking her pug.
«Gucci doesnt suit you,» she murmured. «How about Thames? Ever heard of the Thames, sweetheart? Longest river entirely in England»
The pug snorted, content.
Deep inside, the princess gave one final whimper and vanished forever.
