On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for the lack of cheer. She lay there, eyes shut, muttering to herselfor rather, stating the obvious: she was stuck in a colossal mess.
“Tomorrow I turn fifty. Fifty! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard. Married young. Never strayed. Raised a good daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling children about places Ill never see. Unless, of course, a hurricane hurls the Atlantic and the Great Wall of China onto my doorstep. Though I rather hope it doesntthe ocean would be clogged with rubbish in a day, and the wall would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my pupils hate me and my subject. What do they need geography for? Whats the point? To them, Im wasting their youth babbling about places theyll never go. Geography teacher might as well be a relic of a bygone era, and the kids dont bother hiding it.
Im pretty, in that overlooked waythe kind where people say, Shes got a good heart or She keeps a lovely home. Im a pink tomato, bronzed at best. My hairs the colour of seagull wingsif seagulls were simply grey. And then theres my husband. Ate too many pears. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mother (who lives in another godforsaken corner of Englandsame island, different arse-end), gorged himself on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Not metaphorically. The next one isnt for a week.
Our daughter and her husband are off in far-flung Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the tickets were free. So, Ill be spending my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter cares more about her freeloading holiday than me. No one loves or respects me. They just want food and better marks.”
With these decidedly un-cheerful thoughts, Margaret Elizabeth dragged herself out of bed, stuffed her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in sync, was a plump little bulldog named Pradaa recent gift from her daughter. The only Prada shed ever own.
Putting the kettle on, she opened 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 the thoroughly unqualified Dr. Victor Twatson. Victor will teach you to love yourself and flip off the world. (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their princesslive on screen. Starts in 30 minutes.”
“This is it! My chance to change this dull, worthless life! What else have I got to do?” Margaret thought, plunging into the fantastical world of self-reinvention.
What happened in that webinar remains a mystery (we didnt pay for it, after all), but when the so-called doctor declared, “You deserve to be reborn,” Margaret Elizabeth looked different. Shed clearly found her inner princessand yanked her out through the exact spot where her haemorrhoids flared.
Margaret Elizabeth was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timereshaping her body, refining her mind, demanding respect, altering habits. The not-doctor had mumbled something about a month or two. But she didnt have time. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a sagging beefsteak tomato.
Desire, as they say, turns any method into an express one.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of chaos. The newborn princess was insatiable. Within hours, shed consumed Margarets old self entirely. She Googled beauty standards, latest trends. The results? False lashes, acrylic nails. Purchases? Stilettos, denim shorts labelled Prada, a tank top reading Hot Babe on the Loose with giant red lips and a disturbingly blue tongue sticking out. (Probably fashionable? Margaret wasnt sure.)
Simultaneously, the princess devoured micro-courses: “Sexy Makeup in 60 Minutes,” “Pole Dancing for Beginners,” and “Deep Throat Mastery” (a freebie with the makeup tutorial). She decreed that Margaret must now answer to Trixie and never waver.
“Tomorrow,” the princess swore, “youll wake up beside a ripped millionaire after a night of passion. Everything will change.” She babbled about travel, shopping, Prada (the brand, not the dog). Margaret tried protestinglove for Peter, her daughter, professional dignitybut Trixie just laughed, throat impressively deep.
With one last squeak, Margaret dissolved into her new alter ego.
Then: prepping for the club. Contouring, squeezing into shorts, practising stiletto-stumbles around the flat. Peter, her mother-in-law, and her daughter called with birthday wishes. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie spat out years of pent-up ragejust as Not-Doctor Twatson advised. It didnt help. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, a dazzling Trixie wobbled into the unoriginally named The Pub, ready for debauchery. The Pub surrendered after one cocktaila suspiciously neon Jägerbomb. That was the last thing she remembered.
Morning. A pounding head. Sore legs. Hangover-Margaret was far more lucid than Princess-Trixie. She opened her eyesthen shut them. A hallucination? Her former student, the troublemaker Kevin Briggs, stood in her doorway in boxers.
“Christ, what a nightmare,” she croaked.
“Morning, Miss! Not a nightmare. Dave and Mike are crashed on your sofa. We carried you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?” said the hallucination, in Kevins very real voice.
Margaret groaned, patting herself down under the covers. Had sheGod forbiddone something unthinkable with her ex-pupils? Shorts on. Top on. Underwear intact. No bra.
Kevin interrupted her panic. “Dont worry, we left you as is. Need anything, or can we head off? Just call if you do.”
Relief washed over her. The phone rang. Unknown number. She answered hoarsely.
“Miss? Its Billy. Billy Carter. You left your passport at my pub. And, uh your bra. I can drop em off laterbuilders are coming to fix the bar.”
“Billy! Of course I remember! Oh, you angel. You own a pub now? Such a good lad”
“Yeah, about that. You, uh danced on the counter last night. Cracked it. Then tried using a pipe as a stripper pole. Snapped that too.”
At this, the terrified princess scrambled back into the depths shed been dragged from. Margarets heart ached, her haemorrhoids throbbedreverse birth was no picnic.
“Billy, love, Ill pay for everything!” she wailed.
“Nah, dont worry. 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! Ill get a steel counter next time. Dance all you want.”
The call ended. Her daughter rang next, apologising, announcing a grandchildpossibly named Margaret. She sobbed, begging her to kiss the freeloading son-in-law.
Then Peter called. Hed be home that night, hitching a ride with a lorry mate. “Love you,” he said. “Getting you a fur coat. A beauty like you deserves one.”
She wept, insisting she only wanted him.
Later, showered and tea in hand, she sat on the sofa, reflecting. Her life was perfectjust as it was. A loving husband. A wonderful daughter. Brilliant students.
Prada (the bulldog) clambered onto her lap, nuzzling for pets.
“Listen,” Margaret murmured, “how about we change your name? Prada doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Prada than Im a Trixie. Lets call you Thames. Ever heard of the Thames? Mightiest river in England, you know”
Thames snorted happily. The name didnt matteronly the scritches.
Deep inside Margaret, the princess curled into her dark little corner. Shed stay there. Forever.
