On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer.
She lay in bed with her eyes closed, having a one-sided conversationmore like stating the cold, hard truth about her miserable situation. «Fifty tomorrow. Thats ancient. And what do I have to show for it? I worked hard in school. Married young. Never cheated. Raised a decent daughter who also married too soon. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling kids about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, by some miracle, the Atlantic Ocean crashes into my backyard and drags along the Tower of London. But even then, the water would be filthy by sundown, and the Tower would be covered in graffiti. Three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of hemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. What do they care about geography? To them, Im just wasting their time on places theyll never visit. A geography teacher is the most useless part of school, and they dont bother hiding it. Im pretty, in that way people dont talk aboutthe kind where they say, Shes got a kind heart or She keeps a nice home. Im a pink tomato, turning red if I happen to catch the sun. My hairs the colour of well, nothing poeticjust grey. And my husband? Hes stuffed himself silly. Literally. Peter, visiting his mum in some godforsaken town at the other end of the countryas if were on opposite buttocks of the same miserable backsideate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Not figurativelyhe actually missed it. The next one isnt for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free. So, guess whos spending her birthday alone? My husbands an idiot, my daughter cares more about her free holiday than me, and no one loves or respects me. To them, Im just good for feeding them and passing grades.»
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret Elizabeth dragged herself up, stuffed her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her waddled a chubby little dogrecently gifted by her daughternamed Chanel. The only Chanel shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. The first thing in her feed was an ad: *»Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by self-help guru Victor Holloway (not a real doctor). Victor will teach you to love yourself and stop caring what others think. (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their princess live on air. Starts in 30 minutes!»*
«This is it! My chance to turn this dull, worthless life around! Besides, what else have I got to do?» she thought, diving headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
What happened during the webinar? Hard to saywe didnt pay for it. But when it ended and Dr. Holloway uttered his final, You deserve to be reborn, Margaret Elizabeth looked like shed foundand yanked outa princess from somewhere very uncomfortable.
She was reborn.
Ideally, a full transformation would take time: reshaping her figure, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The not-doctor had mentioned a month or two, but time was a luxury she didnt have. Her birthday was happening now, and she was determined to greet it as a princess, not a sad, lumpy tomato.
Where theres a will, theres an express method. The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of chaos.
The newborn princess was impatient, demanding everything at once. Within hours, shed devoured Margaret Elizabeths old personality. She Googled beauty standards, latest trends. The results? Eyelash extensions, manicured nails, stilettos, denim shorts with *Chanel* scrawled across them, and a tight top declaring *»Wild & Free Tonight!»* with an oversized pair of red lips and a disturbingly blue tongue sticking out. *Probably fashionable*, Margaret Elizabeth reasoned.
She also crammed in micro-courses: *»Sultry Makeup in 60 Minutes,»* *»Pole Dancing for Beginners,»* and *»Advanced Techniques»* (a free bonus with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed shed now answer to *»Bunny»* and ordered her to stop being such a bore. By morning, shed wake up next to a young, rich gym addict after a night of passion. Something about travel, shopping, and *real* Chanel (definitely not the dog). Margaret Elizabeth barely understood half of it.
She tried protestingwhat about Peter? Her daughter? A teachers dignity? The princess just laughed, throaty and deep, showing off her newfound skills. Margaret Elizabeth squeaked one last objection before dissolving entirely into her new alter ego.
Then came the bar preparations. Smoky eyes, squeezing into the shorts, practising walking in heels.
Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them politely. Bunny? She unloaded years of pent-up bitterness. It didnt make her feel better, but maybe the relief would come later.
At 11 PM, a glamorous *»Bunny»* stumbled into the local pubcreatively named *The Pub*ready for adventure, debauchery included.
The Pub surrendered after one cocktail, a *»Sex on the Beach.»*
Thats the last thing she remembered before waking up.
Head pounding. Legs aching. Hangover-induced clarity brought old Margaret creeping back. She opened her eyesthen shut them again.
Hallucinations. Her former student, notorious slacker Kevin Thompson, stood in her doorway in his boxers.
«God, I must be dreaming,» she croaked.
«Morning, Miss! Not a dream. Mike and Dave are crashed on the sofa. We carried you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some hair of the dog?»
Margaret groaned, patting herself under the blanket. Had she? No. Shorts on, top on, underwear intact. No bra.
Kevin interrupted her panic. «Dont worry, we put you to bed fully dressed. Well head off unless you need us.»
Relief flooded her. No scandal, no tabloid headlines.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
She rasped, «Hello?»
A mans voice: «Miss? Its Billyremember me? From school? You left your passport at my bar last night. And, uh your bra. I can drop them off latergot plumbers coming. The bars a bit wrecked.»
«Oh, Billy! Of course I remember! Youre such a good ladowning a pub now! So proud!» She pieced together flashes of the night.
«Yeah, well You kinda smashed the bar counter. And tried using a pipe as a dance pole. Snapped it clean off.»
The princess inside her recoiled, scrambling back to where shed been forcibly extracted. Hemorrhoids flared. Heart panged. Reverse childbirth wasnt pleasant.
«Billy! Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!»
«Dont be daft! You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Paristold my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! Never even been before, just remembered your lessons. Ill fix the bar properreinforced. Dance on it all you like!»
The call ended. Another rang instantly.
Her daughter, apologising. Turns out Bunny might be a grandma soon. If its a girl, *»Night Owl»* (her son-in-laws nickname) suggested naming her Margaret.
She cried, telling her to kiss Night Owl for her.
Another call. Peter, saying hed be home tonighthitching a ride with a trucker. He loved her, wanted to buy her a fur coat tomorrow. «A beauty like you deserves one.»
She wept, insisting she only needed him.
After a shower and a giant mug of tea, she sat on the sofa, reflecting.
Her life was wonderful. Exactly what she wanted. A loving husband, a brilliant daughter, great students.
She liked her ordinary, unglamorous worldher tinned tomatoes, her routines.
Sometimes she laughed. Sometimes she cried.
Chanel (the dog) clambered onto her lap, demanding affection.
Margaret stroked her. «Listen, love Chanel doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Chanel than Im a Bunny. How about Thames? Unusual, majestic. Did you know its the longest river entirely in England? Shaped history, that one…»
The dog snortedpugs do that when happy. She didnt care about the name, just the scratches.
Somewhere deep inside Margaret Elizabeth, the princess huddled into a dark corner.
Shed stay there. For good.
