On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Eleanor Whitmore awoke in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay there, eyes shut, having a conversation with herselfor rather, stating the bleak reality of her existence. *Fifty years old tomorrow. Half a century. And what do I have to show for it? I was a good student. Married young, never strayed. Raised a daughter who did the same. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling children about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, by some miracle, the Thames floods my garden and drops the Eiffel Tower on my doorstep. But lets hope not, because the river would be clogged with rubbish within hours, and the Tower would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three framed certificates from the mayor and a throbbing case of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me and my subject. What do they care about geography? Why should they? To them, Im wasting their youth on stories about places theyll never visit. A geography teacher is just another pointless cog in the education machine, and the kids dont bother hiding their disdain. Im attractive in that quiet, unremarkable way people call kind or homely. A pink tomatoturning red if I accidentally catch the sun. My hair? The colour of pigeon feathers, if youre being poetic. Grey, really. And my husband? Well, hes gone and stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My dear Robert, visiting his mum in some godforsaken corner of Scotlandas if we live on opposite cheeks of the same miserable backsideate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Not metaphorically. The next one isnt for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in Japan because, *Mum, you never celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free.* So, Ill be ringing in my fiftieth alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter chose a free holiday over me, and no one loves or respects me. To them, Im just good for a meal and a passing grade.*
With these cheery thoughts, Eleanor shoved her feet into fuzzy slippers and shuffled to the kitchen, a plump little bulldog named Pradaher daughters recent giftwaddling after her. The only Prada shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. The first post? An ad: *Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by not-quite-a-doctor Victor Holloway. Learn to love yourself and stop caring what others think! (Results not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess live on-screen. Starts in 30 minutes.*
*This is it. My chance to change this dull, worthless life. What else have I got to lose?* She signed up, diving headfirst into the absurdity of self-reinvention.
What happened during that webinar? No one knowsshe didnt share the login. But when it ended, and Dr. Holloway uttered his final *You deserve to be reborn,* Eleanors expression said it all. Shed found something inside herselfnot a dainty princess, but something far wilder, yanked out through a place currently occupied by angry haemorrhoids.
Eleanor Whitmore was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timeexercise, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The doctor had mentioned weeks, maybe months. But Eleanor didnt have time. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not some sad, soggy tomato.
And where theres a will, theres a way.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of panic and poor decisions. The newborn princess demanded everything at once. She was relentless, devouring Eleanors old self in hours. Pinterest boards of glamorous women, frantic Googling of trends. False lashes. Acrylic nails. Sky-high stilettos. Denim shorts with *Prada* scrawled across the back. A crop top declaring *Bad Bitch on the Prowl* under neon-pink lips with a lolling, unsettlingly blue tongue. *Must be fashionable*, Eleanor reasoned.
Then came the crash courses: *Sultry Makeup in 60 Minutes*, *Pole Dancing for Beginners*, and *Deep Throat Mastery* (free with the makeup tutorial). The princess decreed Eleanor must now answer to *Trixie* and *own it*. By morning, shed wake up beside some toned, wealthy Adonis after a night of passion, and life would begin anew. There was rambling about shopping sprees and Prada (definitely not the dog), but most of it sailed over Eleanors head. She weakly protested*What about Robert? My daughter? My dignity as a teacher?*but the princess just cackled, displaying her newfound throat skills.
One last squeak of resistance, and Eleanor dissolved entirely into her new alter ego.
Then: prepping for the club. Contouring, squeezing into the shorts, practising strutting in heels. Calls cameRobert, her mother-in-law, her daughterall offering birthday wishes. The old Eleanor wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unleashed years of pent-up fury, just as Dr. Holloway advised. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., a staggering vision in denim and glitter*Trixie*burst into the uncreatively named *The Pub*. The place surrendered after one *Sex on the Beach*.
Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangover clarity made Eleanor resurface, weak but present. She opened her eyesthen slammed them shut. Hallucinating. Her former student, the class clown and chronic truant, Liam Carter, stood in her doorway in his boxers.
*God, now Im seeing things.*
Mornin, Miss Whitmore! Not a hallucination. Jake Miller and Noah Bennett are passed out on your sofa. We brought you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a cuppa?
Eleanor groaned, patting herself down under the coversstill dressed, thank God. No bra, though.
Dont worry, we didnt touch nowt. Just dumped you in bed as you were. Need anything before we go?
Relief flooded her. No scandal. No tabloid headlines.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
Y-yes? she croaked.
Miss Whitmore? Its TomTom Davies. From Year 11? You left your passport at my pub last night. And, erm your bra. I can drop em off laterbuilders are here fixing the bar.
Tom! Lovely boy! Oh, the bra. Goodness. Youve done so well for yourself, buying a pub!
Yeah, well about that. You, erm danced on the bar. Snapped it. Then tried to swing from a pipe. Ripped it clean out the wall.
The princess inside her recoiled, scrambling back into the dark pit shed crawled from. Haemorrhoids screamed. Heart pounded. Reverse birth was just as painful.
Tom, love, Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!
Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Paristold my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! Cheers for that. Ill reinforce the bar. Dance on it whenever you like.
The line went dead.
Another call. Her daughter, apologising. *Mum, guess what? Youre gonna be a grandma. If its a girl, were naming her after you.*
Eleanor sobbed, begging her to kiss the *cheeky git* of a son-in-law.
Then Robert rang. *Coming home tonight. Hitching a ride with a lorry mate. Love you. Fancy a fur coat? A stunner like you deserves one.*
More tears. *I dont need a coat. I just need you.*
She dragged herself to the shower, then slumped on the sofa with a giant mug of tea.
Maybe her life wasnt so bad. Maybe it was exactly what she wanted. A loving husband. A wonderful daughter. Students who remembered her fondly. She liked her unglamorous, ordinary existenceher jars of homemade jam, her cosy routines.
Laughing, crying, reminiscing, she scratched Pradas ears.
Yknow what, love? Lets change your name. *Prada* doesnt suit you. How about *Thames*? Majestic. Historic. Ever heard of the Great Stink of 1858? Let me tell you
The bulldog snorted, happy as long as the scratches continued.
Deep inside Eleanor, the princess gave one final whimperthen vanished for good.
