On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth awoke in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay in bed with her eyes closed, conversing with herselfor rather, stating the grim facts of her existence. *Fifty tomorrow. Half a century. And what have I to show for it? I studied hard, married young, never strayed. Raised a good daughter who also married young. Eighteen years at the same school, teaching children about places Ill never seeunless, by some miracle, the Thames floods my doorstep and deposits the Tower of London in my garden. Fat chance. Even if it did, the river would be clogged with rubbish by lunchtime.*
Three commendations from the head of the county council. A nagging case of sciatica. Most of her pupils despised her and her subject. *Why bother with geography?* they groaned. *Pointless waste of time.* She was, in their eyes, a relicuseless, out of touch.
Margaret had that sort of beauty no one spoke ofthe kind people called *kindly* or *homely*, never striking. A rosy tomato, bronzed at best. Hair like a pigeons wingnot silver, not grey, just nondescript. And her husband? Well, hed bungled things spectacularly. Peter, visiting his mother up in Newcastle (another forgotten corner of the world, though somehow even bleaker than theirs), had gorged himself on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his trainquite literally. The next one wasnt for a week.
Their daughter, Emily, was off in Japan with her husband. *”Mum, you never celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free!”* So, Margaret would spend her birthday alone. *Husbands a fool. Daughters too wrapped up in her free holiday to care. No one loves me. No one respects me. Just feed them, grade them, keep quiet.*
With these cheerful thoughts, she shoved her feet into fuzzy slippers and shuffled to the kitchen, trailed by a plump little spaniel named Pradaher one and only designer accessory, a gift from Emily.
While the kettle boiled, she scrolled through her social media. The first post was an ad: *”TODAY ONLYWebinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Hosted by self-help guru Victor Holloway (not a real doctor). Learn to love yourself, ignore the naysayers! (Results not guaranteed.) Witness live as each participant gives birth to her own princessmetaphorically, of course. Starts in 30 minutes.”*
*This is it. My chance to turn things around. Nothing else to do, anyway.*
What happened during that webinar remained a mystery. But by the end, when “Dr.” Holloway declared, *”You are worthy of rebirth!”* Margarets expression suggested shed indeed unearthed a princessand yanked her out through a rather uncomfortable exit.
She was transformed.
Ideally, reinvention takes timenew habits, new figure, new respect. The not-doctor had mumbled something about six to eight weeks, but Margaret didnt have that luxury. Her birthday was tomorrow, and she refused to greet it as a sagging, middle-aged tomato.
What followed was a whirlwind. The newborn princess was insatiable. Fake lashes, acrylic nails, stiletto heels, denim shorts emblazoned *PRADA*, a crop-top declaring *”BAD GIRL ON THE LOOSE”* with a tacky lip-and-tongue decal (the tongue was an unsettling shade of blue, but surely that was fashion).
She binge-watched tutorials: *”Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* *”Advanced Flirting”* (the last one came free with the makeup course). The princess christened herself *Trixie* and ordered Margaret to own it. *”By tomorrow, youll wake up beside a ripped millionaire,”* she cackled, throaty and wild. Margaret squeaked a feeble protest about Peter, respectability, and teaching ethics, but Trixie just laughed harder.
Then came the bar.
The *Swan & Crown* never stood a chance. One *Sex on the Beach* cocktail later, and Trixie had conquered the room.
That was the last thing Margaret remembered before waking with a pounding headacheand, inexplicably, sore legs.
She opened her eyes, then shut them. *Hallucinating. Surely.* Because standing in her doorway was a former studentJason Briggs, the one whod barely scraped a D in geographywearing nothing but boxers.
*”God, what a nightmare,”* she croaked.
*”Morning, Miss! Not a nightmare. Danny and Liam are crashed on the sofa. We dragged you home last nightfigured you might need help. Fancy a fry-up?”*
Margaret groaned, patting herself under the covers. Shorts? On. Top? On. Bra? Gone.
*”We didnt touch nothing, swear,”* Jason said. *”Just got you home safe. Need anything, you call, yeah?”*
Relief washed over her. The phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Hello?”* she rasped.
*”Miss? Its Tom. Tom Wheeler. From year eleven? You, uh left your passport at my pub. And er your bra.”*
*”Tom! Lovely boy! Bought a pub, have you? So proud!”*
*”Yeah, about that. You sort of broke the bar. Dancing on it. And the plumbing. Tried to use a pipe as a stripper pole.”*
Trixie shrank back, scrambling into the dark recesses of Margarets psyche. Her sciatica flared. Her heart ached. Reverse metamorphosis was *not* painless.
*”Tom, Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Took the lads to Paris last monthrecited everything you taught us. They thought I was a proper tour guide! Cheers, Miss.”*
The phone rang again. Emily, apologising, announcing a baby on the way*”If its a girl, were naming her after you.”*
Peter called next. *”Home tonight, love. Got a lift with a mate. Oh, and Im buying you a proper fur coat. You deserve it.”*
Margaret wept into her tea. She had everything. A devoted husband. A wonderful daughter. Pupils who, against all odds, remembered her fondly.
Pradano, *Severn* now (a noble name for a noble river)snuffled into her lap. Margaret stroked her soft ears. *”Youre no Prada, love. And Im no Trixie.”*
Somewhere deep inside, the princess curled up and went quietfor good.
