The morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. And honestly, given everything that had been going on lately, no one could blame her for feeling a bit bleak.
She lay there with her eyes closed, having a one-woman conversationor maybe just stating the obvious fact that her life felt like a complete disaster. *Tomorrow I turn fifty. Fifty! Thats so old! And what do I have to show for it? I did well in school. Married young. Never cheated on my husband. Raised a good daughter who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling kids about places Ive never been and never will. Unless, of course, some freak hurricane drops the Atlantic and the Eiffel Tower right outside my house. But lets hope not, because then the ocean would just get trashed overnight, and the Tower would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a bad case of hemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. Why do they even need geography? Why? Im wasting their time, as far as theyre concerned, teaching them about places theyll never visit. Geography teacheruseless, pointless, and they dont bother hiding how they feel. Ive got that kind of beauty nobody talks about. If a woman has it, people just say shes kind and a good homemaker. Im a pink tomatomaybe red if I catch a tan. And my hair? The colour of a birds wingexcept no bird actually has hair this grey. Oh, and my husband? Hes stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My darling Philip, visiting his mumwho lives in the middle of nowhere, just like us, but the other end of the country, as if were on opposite butt cheeks of the worldate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And no, thats not a metaphor. Next trains not for a week. Our daughter and her husband are off in Japan because, *Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and this holiday was basically free.* So, guess what? Im spending my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter cares more about a free trip than her own mother. Nobody loves or respects me. All anyone wants from me is food or a better grade.*
With these lovely thoughts, Margaret heaved herself out of bed, shoved her feet into fuzzy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in sync, was a chubby little dog named Pradaa recent gift from her daughter. The only Prada shed ever own.
While the kettle boiled, she checked her social media. First thing in her feed? An ad: *”Only today! WebinarDig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed life coach Victor King. Victor will teach you to love yourself and not care what anyone thinks. (Results not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will give birth to their inner princesslive on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.”*
*”This is it! This could actually turn my dull, pointless life around! And its not like Ive got anything better to do,”* she thought, diving headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
We dont know exactly what went down in that webinar (because we didnt pay for it), but by the time “Coach” King signed off with *”You deserve to give yourself a fresh start,”* Margaret looked different. Like shed yanked out a princess from deep withinprobably through the same spot where her hemorrhoids flared up.
Margaret was reborn.
Now, ideally, a full transformation wouldve taken timeworking on her figure, self-improvement, earning respect from others, changing habits, her social circle. The fake coach had mumbled something about a month or two, but she didnt have that kind of time. She *would* be a princess for her birthday, not some sad, pink beefsteak tomato.
And where theres a will, theres always a shortcut.
The next 24 hours were chaos. The newborn princess wanted *everything*, *now*. She took over completely. Within hours, shed googled beauty trends, gotten eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts with “PRADA” scrawled across the back, and a crop top that read *”Bad Girl Free Tonight”* with giant red lips and a lolled-out blue tongueprobably unhealthy-looking, but hey, that must be fashionable.
She also signed up for micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Mastery”* (free with the makeup course). The princess insisted Margaret now go by *”Trixie”* and *”own it.”* She promised that by morning, shed wake up next to a young, ripped millionaire after a night of passion, and everything would change. She babbled about travel, shopping, and *real* Pradadefinitely not the dog. Most of it went over Margarets head. She tried weakly to protest*What about Philip? My daughter? Professional dignity?*but the princess just laughed, showing off her newly mastered deep-throat skills.
Margaret squeaked one last objection then dissolved completely into her new alter ego.
Next: prepping for the club. Sultry makeup, squeezing into the shorts, practising walking in the heels. Meanwhile, Philip, her mother-in-law, and her daughter all called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. New Trixie? She unleashed *years* of pent-up feelingsjust like “Coach” King taught. It didnt make her feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, *Trixie the Daring* struttedslightly wobblyinto the local pub, *The Crown*, ready for adventure and, frankly, debauchery. *The Crown* didnt stand a chance. One cocktail (something called a *”Flaming Lamborghini”*) later, and the place surrendered.
Thats the last thing she remembered before waking up the next morning. Head pounding. Legs aching. Hangover-Margaret was somehow stronger than Princess-Trixie. She opened her eyesthen immediately shut them. *Hallucinating. Definitely hallucinating.* Because standing in her bedroom doorway, in just his boxers, was her former studentthe troublemaker, the class clown, *Tommy Fletcher*.
*”God, why would I dream *this*?”* she mumbled.
*”Morning, Miss Elizabeth! Not a dream. Also, Dave and Mike are crashed on your sofa. We carried you home last night. Thought you might need help. Fancy a Bloody Mary?”*
Margaret groaned and patted herself down under the covers. *Please tell me nothing happened with my ex-students.* Shortson. Topon. Knickerson. No bra.
*”Uh, we just put you to bed as-is. If youre alright, well head off. But call if you need anything,”* Tommy said.
Relief washed over her. *No scandal. No tabloid headlines.*
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Y-yes?”* she croaked.
*”Miss Elizabeth? Its Jakeyou know, from school? You left your purse and, uh *bra* at my pub last night. I can drop them off latergot plumbers coming to fix the bar.”*
*”Jake! Of course I remember! Oh, youre such a love. You own a pub now? So proud!”*
*”Well, about that You kinda *broke* the bar. Dancing on it. And then you tried using a pipe as a pole Snapped right off.”*
At that, the princess *scrambled* back to where she came from. Hemorrhoids screamed. Heart pounded. Reverse childbirth was *not* painless.
*”Jake! Im *so* sorry! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. Last month in Paris, I told my mates all the stuff you taught usthey thought I was a tour guide! Never even been before. All thanks to you. Ill get a steel bar installed. Dance all you want!”*
The phone rang again. Her daughter. Apologising. *”Mum I think youre gonna be a grandma. And if its a girl, were naming her after you.”*
Margaret sobbed. *”Kiss that night-owl husband of yours for me.”*
Another call. Philip. *”Ill be home tonightcatching a lift with a mate. Love you. Getting you a fur coat. A beauty like you deserves one.”*
More tears. *”Dont need a coat. Just you.”*
She dragged herself to the shower, made a giant cuppa, and collapsed on the sofa. Sipping tea, she realised: *Her life was pretty bloody great.* Exactly the life she *wanted*. A loving husband. A wonderful daughter and son-in-law. Students whoapparentlydidnt hate her.
She liked her unglamorous, ordinary life. Her jars of homegrown tomatoes. *Herself.*
She laughed. She cried. Remembered things.
Then the chubby little dogPradaclambered onto her lap, demanding pets.
*”Listen I feel a bit awkward, but Prada doesnt suit you. No offence, but youre not exactly haute couture. More like *Thames.* Unusual, right? And do you know how important the Thames is? Longest river entirely in England! Did you know”*
The dognow Thamesgrunted happily. (Pugs do that.) She didnt care about the name. Just the cuddles.
And somewhere deep inside Margaret, the princess curled up in her designated corner. *For good.* No more ruining things.
