On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke in a foul temper. Given recent events, no one could blame the woman for her lack of cheer. Lying there with her eyes still closed, she muttered to herselfor rather, simply acknowledged the dismal state of her life. *Tomorrow I turn fifty. Fifty! And what have I to show for it? I was a diligent student. Married young. Never once strayed. Raised a good daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching children geographytelling them about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, of course, some miracle hurricane drops the Atlantic and the Tower of London on my doorstep. But then again, the sea would be clogged with rubbish by sundown, and the Tower graffitied within an hour. Ive got three commendations from the mayor and a flare-up of hemorrhoids. Most of my pupils despise me and my subject. What do they care about geography? Why should they? To them, Im wasting their youth rambling about places theyll never visit. A geography teacher is the most useless part of school, and the children dont bother hiding it. Ive got that sort of beauty no one talks about. When a woman has it, folks say shes kind or a good homemaker. Im a blushing tomatoor a sunburnt one, if Im unlucky. My hairs the colour of a pigeons wingno, not even that poetic. Just grey. Oh, and my husbands gone and stuffed himself with pears. Not figuratively. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mother in some godforsaken corner of the countryas if we live on one bum cheek of the world and shes on the othergorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And I do mean missedno metaphor there. The next train isnt for a week. My daughter and her husband are off in far-flung Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate birthdays anyway, and the trip was practically free. So, Ill be spending my milestone alone. My husbands a fool, my daughter cares more for her free holiday than her own mother. No one loves me. No one respects me. All anyone wants from me is a meal or a passing grade.*
With these decidedly grim thoughts, Margaret Elizabeth swung her legs out of bed, stuffed her feet into worn slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in step, came a plump little bulldog named Posha recent gift from her daughter. The only Posh Margaret Elizabeth would ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. The first post in her feed was an advert: *TODAY ONLY! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by self-styled life coach Victor Holloway. Victor will teach you to love yourself and dismiss the naysayersthough he makes no promises of success. By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess LIVE on screen. Starts in thirty minutes.*
*This is it! My chance to turn this dull, worthless life around! What else have I got to do?* Margaret Elizabeth thought, and with that, she plunged into the fantastical world of self-reinvention.
What happened during that webinar, none can saywe didnt pay for it, after all. But when it ended, and Holloway uttered his final lineYou deserve to be reborn!Margaret Elizabeth looked as though she had indeed dredged up something from within. Not a dainty princess, but something larger, dragged out through a rather painful exit.
She was reborn.
Ideally, full transformation would have taken timetoning her figure, expanding her mind, earning respect, changing habits. Holloway had mumbled something about a month or two, but time was a luxury she didnt have. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a sunburnt, wilted tomato.
And as we all know, any method can be sped upif one has the will.
The next twenty-four hours were a frenzy of manic activity.
This newborn princess was impatient, demanding everything at once. She consumed Margaret Elizabeths former self within hours. She scoured the internet for beauty trends, emerging with false lashes, acrylic nails, stiletto heels, denim shorts emblazoned with *Posh*, and a crop top declaring *Daring Babe Out Tonight!* in glittering letters. The shirt featured giant red lips with a lolling, disturbingly blue tongue*must be fashion*, Margaret Elizabeth mused weakly.
Meanwhile, the princess devoured micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes*, *Pole Dancing for Beginners*, and *Deep Throat Mastery* (the last thrown in as a freebie). She decreed that Margaret Elizabeth must now answer to *Trixie* and never falter.
*By tomorrow,* the princess vowed, *youll wake beside a young, wealthy Adonis after a night of passion, and everything will change.* She babbled of travel, shopping sprees, and *Posh*clearly not the dogbut most of it blurred into nonsense. Margaret Elizabeth weakly protestedwhat of Peter? Her daughter? A teachers dignity? The princess only laughed, her throaty cackle showcasing her newly acquired skills.
With one last squeak of resistance, Margaret Elizabeth dissolved entirely into her new alter ego.
Then came the preparations for the pub.
Sultry makeup. Squeezing into the shorts. Practicing struts in stilettos.
Peter called. Her mother-in-law called. Her daughter calledall attempting birthday wishes. The old Margaret Elizabeth would have thanked them. But *Trixie* unleashed years of pent-up bitterness, just as Holloway had instructed. It didnt bring relief. Perhaps that came later.
By 11 p.m., a glamorous *Trixie* stumbled into the unremarkably named *The Pub*, ready for adventureand debauchery in particular. *The Pub* surrendered after her first cocktailsomething ominously called *The Blackout*.
That was the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangover clarity had, oddly, revived Margaret Elizabeth more than the princess. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
A hallucination. Surely.
Her former pupildim-witted, truant Kevin Dawsonstood in her bedroom doorway in his boxers.
*God, what a nightmare,* she croaked aloud.
Mornin, Miss! Not a nightmare. Vinnie Carter and Davey White are crashed on your sofa. We lugged you home from the pub last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some hair of the dog?
Margaret Elizabeth groaned, patting herself under the covers in horror. Had shewith her *students*?
Shorts on. Top on. Underwear on. No bra.
Dont fret, Miss, Kevin said. We put you to bed fully clothed. Just shout if you need us, yeah?
Relief washed over her. No scandal. No tabloid headlines.
The phone rang. Unknown number.
She answered hoarsely. Yes?
A mans voice: Miss Elizabeth? Its TommyTommy Briggs. You taught me. Listen, you left your purse at my pub last nightand, erm, your bra. I can drop em off later. Got plumbers coming
Tommy! Bless you. Oh, the bra. Youre a love. Running a pub now! she rasped.
Yeah, wellabout that. You, erm, broke the bar counter last night. And the plumbing. Tried using a pipe as a dance pole.
At this, the princess recoiled, scrambling back into the depths from whence she came. Hemorrhoids shrieked. Her heart achedreverse birth is no gentle process.
Tommy, love, Ill pay for everything!
Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Paristold my mates all your stories. They thought I was a tour guide! All thanks to you. Ill reinforce the bar. Get a proper pole installedjust for you.
The line went dead.
Another call. Her daughter. Apologies. A grandchild on the way. If its a girl, theyll name her Margaret.
Tears. Joy. Kisses sent to the son-in-law.
Peter called next. Hed be home by eveningcatching a ride with a lorry mate. He loved her. Wanted to buy her a fur coat*a beauty like you deserves one.*
More tears. *Keep the coat. I just want you.*
She dragged herself up, showered, and slumped on the sofa with tea.
As she sipped, it struck her: her life *was* wonderful. Exactly as she wanted it. A husband she adored. A daughter she cherished. Pupils who, against all odds, remembered her fondly.
She *liked* her unglamorous, ordinary life. Her jars of homemade jam. Her cosy routines.
Occasionally, she laughed. Sometimes she cried. Memories surfacedprecious, painful, perfect.
The bulldog clambered onto her lap, nuzzling her hand.
Margaret Elizabeth stroked its wrinkled head. Listen, lovePosh doesnt suit you. Youre no more Posh than I am Trixie. How about Thames? Majestic. Historic. The longest river entirely in England. Did you know it
The bulldog snuffled happily. The name mattered notonly the scritches.
And deep within Margaret Elizabeth, the princess curled into her designated corner.
For good.
Where she wouldnt ruin a single thing.
