On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Wilkins woke in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for the lack of cheer. Lying there with her eyes shut, she muttered to herselfthough it was less a conversation and more a grim acknowledgment of her predicament.
«Fifty years old tomorrow. Thats a lot. And what do I have to show for it? I did well in school. Married young. Never strayed. Raised a good daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching children geographyplaces Ive never seen and never will. Unless, of course, a freak hurricane drags the Atlantic and the Great Wall of China to my doorstep. Though I hope it doesnttheyd litter the ocean in a day and graffiti the Wall with obscenities. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of hemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why any of it? In their eyes, Im wasting their youth babbling about places theyll never visit. A pointless relic of education, and they dont bother hiding it.
I have that kind of beauty nobody talks about. If a woman has it, they say shes kind or a good homemaker. Im a pink tomatoor red, if I catch the sun. My hairs the colour of well, no birds wing, just plain grey. And my husband? Hes stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My dear Robert, visiting his mother in her own backwatersame country, opposite end, like were on separate buttocks divided by a chasmgorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Again, literally. The next ones not for a week.
My daughter and her husband are in far-off Japan because Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and this trip was dirt cheap. So, Ill spend my birthday alone. Roberts an idiot, my daughter thinks a free holiday trumps her own mother, nobody loves or respects methey just want food or a bumped-up grade.»
With these decidedly uncheerful thoughts, Margaret dragged herself up, stuffed her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her waddled a plump little spaniel named Pradaher daughters recent gift. The only Prada shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she scrolled through social media. The first post was an ad: «TODAY ONLY! Webinar: Dig Deep & Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Led by self-styled Dr. Victor Holloway. Learn to love yourself, spit on the world! (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant births their princess LIVE on screen. Starts in 30 mins.»
*This! This could change everything! What have I got to lose?* Margaret thought, plunging into the fairy-tale world of self-reinvention.
What happened in that webinar remains a mysterywe didnt pay for it. But when Dr. Holloway signed off with, «You deserve to rebirth yourself,» Margarets expression made it clear shed dredged up *something* from within. And not a dainty princess. This one had clawed her way out via the very spot where her hemorrhoids throbbed.
Margaret Wilkins was reborn.
Ideally, full transformation required timeexercise, self-improvement, earning respect, new habits. The faux doctor mentioned months. But time was a luxury she lacked. Her birthday *would* be celebrated as a princess, not a sagging beefsteak tomato.
And where theres a will, theres a slapdash way.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of panic and bad decisions. The newborn princess was insatiable. She devoured Margarets old self within hours, Googling beauties and trends with manic fervor. The results? Eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts branded *Prada*, and a tank top declaring *Daring Babe: Free Tonight!* in glittering script, complete with appliquéd lips and a disturbingly blue tongue. *Must be fashionable*, Margaret reasoned weakly.
She also crammed in micro-courses: «Sultry Makeup in 60 Mins,» «Pole Dancing for Beginners,» and «Deep Throat Mastery» (a freebie with the makeup tutorial). The princess decreed shed now answer to *Trixie* and to «stop being a wet blanket.» By tomorrow, shed wake beside a young, ripped millionaire after a night of passion. Something about travel, shopping, and *real* Prada followedmost of it lost on the fading Margaret, who squeaked protests about Robert, her daughter, and professional dignity. The princess just laughed, throat bared in a way that now felt trained.
Then: prepping for the club. Contouring, squeezing into shorts, hobbling in heels. Calls cameRobert, her mother-in-law, her daughterall trying to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. *Trixie* unleashed years of pent-up bitterness, just as Dr. Holloway advised. It didnt help. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, *Trixie* strutted into *The Pub* (a bar so generic it looped back to avant-garde), ready for debauchery. *The Pub* buckled after one *Sex on the Beach*. Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a splitting headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangovers, it seemed, revived Margaret while the princess wilted. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut. Hallucinating. Her former student, troublemaker Jamie Carter, loomed in her doorway. In boxers.
«God, I must be mad,» she croaked.
«Morning, Ms. Wilkins! Youre not. Dave and Mike are crashed on the sofa. We brought you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a cuppa?» said the hallucination in Jamies voice.
Margaret groaned, patting herself under the covers. Shorts? On. Tank top? Yes. Underwear? Intact. No bra.
«Youre decent,» Jamie added. «We didnt touch nowt. Need us to stay?»
Relief flooded her. No tabloid-worthy scandal. Then her phone rang. Unknown number. She rasped, «Hello?»
«Ms. Wilkins? ItsuhTom. From school? You left your passport at my bar. And, uh your bra. Can drop em off tonightbuilders are here now.»
«Tom! Lovely boy! You bought a bar? So proud»
«Not redecorating. You, erm, smashed the counter dancing. And broke a pipe trying to pole dance on it.»
The princess recoiled, scrambling back into the abyss shed crawled from. Hemorrhoids shrieked; her heart stung. Reverse birth was no picnic.
«Tom, Ill pay»
«Nah! You were my favourite teacher. Went to Spain last year, told my mates all your storiesthey asked if I was a tour guide! Cheers to you! Ill weld the counter stronger next time. Get a proper pole, yeah?»
The call ended. Another rangher daughter, apologising, hinting at a grandchild, suggesting *Margaret* for the name if its a girl. Margaret wept, told her to kiss the «cheap-holiday twit.»
Then Robert called. Home tonight, hitching a ride with a lorry mate. Loved her. Wanted to buy her a fur coat»a beauty like you deserves one.» She cried harder, saying she only wanted *him*.
Showered and tea in hand, she slumped on the sofa. Life *was* good. A loving husband, a wonderful daughter, sweet students. She treasured her jam jars and quiet routine. Laughing, cryingshe relived memories.
The spaniel clambered onto her lap. Margaret stroked its fur. «Listen, love Prada doesnt suit you. No offense, but youre no more Prada than Im Trixie. How about *Thames*? Ever heard of its history? Longest river entirely in England, you know»
The dognow *Thames*snorted happily. Names didnt matter; scritches did.
And deep inside Margaret, the princess curled into her dark little nest. For good.
