For a couple of minutes, nothing happened.
She tutted to herself, annoyed at how she’d been taken in by a strange old woman. As she sipped the rest of the coffee, she could sense Iris’s eyes boring into her.
‘Okay. I’ll try it one more time,’ Greta told her.
Then I’m out of here.
‘Isaid . ..’ Greta repeated. ‘That Iwishmy life could be like a Maple Gold coffee commercial . . .’
Again, she didn’t expect anything to happen. The distant hum of traffic outside and the faint clink of Iris stirring her bowl sounded normal, even mundane.
But then the white rabbit on the label of the jar winked at her, and things began to shift. The edges of the room started to quiver, and the once sharp lines of the table blurred. Sounds and colours around her faded from solid hues to pastels.
A strange sensation spread through her, not fear but an overwhelming stillness. Greta’s limbs grew heavier, as if she was weighted down by iron shackles. She tried to stand up, but found herself sinking deeper into the seat. Panic flared briefly inside her, and the taste of the coffee grew stronger on her tongue.
What the hell is happening?
All the energy suddenly drained out of her, and Greta struggled to keep her eyes open. Everything was ebbing away, and she felt like she was sinking into a hot bath, deeper and deeper, until the water covered her body and face.
And then, everything went black.
Chapter 7
LIGHT DAPPLED THROUGHGreta’s eyelids as she woke from a deep slumber. A gentle breeze lifted her hair and let it lie flat again, like a lover’s fingers caressing her forehead.
She lay there for a while with a contented smile on her face, enjoying a feeling of serenity she didn’t usually experience when waking up. No dread, no anxiety. Just peace.
Since she and Jim had separated, nightmares plagued her that she could recall in great detail. A faceless knife-wielding stranger chased her along dark alleyways, or she arrived at a supermarket till with a full shopping trolley and found she’d forgotten her purse. The dreams made her jolt awake, sweating and dry-mouthed, and she’d even given up eating cheese before bedtime.
Now, she felt calm, like she was waking up in a posh hotel bed on holiday. The duvet felt like a cloud, and the quietness surrounding her was blissful. The air was rich with the scent of coffee with a hint of cinnamon. She could hear birds twittering and, oddly, the faint sound of a cappella singing.
As she dozed, Greta hummed to herself, hazily trying to piece things together.
The last thing she remembered was sipping the coffee Iris had given her. She’d made some preposterous wish, felt lightheaded . . . and then what? Had she fainted? Had someone carried her from the coffee shop booth and laid her on a luxurious bed, like Sleeping Beauty?
At that thought, Greta’s eyes shot open.
With a growing sense of unease, she shuffled herself upright and looked around the room. Sunlight streamed through the billowing sheer curtains, illuminating walls painted in shades of cream and mocha. Stencilled coffee beans formed a frieze along the top. The polished wooden dressing table was free from her usual piles of books and cosmetics, and the carpet was clear from stray socks that hadn’t made it into the laundry basket. The wardrobe doors were glossy without any scuffs or chips, and everywhere looked unnaturally tidy and spotless, like a model home.
A metallic taste flooded her mouth.
This isn’t my flat.
So, where on earth was she? Blood whooshed in her ears as she swung her legs out of bed. She curled her toes into a thick, fluffy rug to ground herself.
As she glanced down, her eyes widened at the sight of the cream silk nightdress that skimmed her body. She was a dedicated wearer of fleecy pyjamas and hadn’t worn anything this skimpy for years.
Greta frowned and patted her belly, hips and boobs, sucking in an astonished breath. Every part of her body felt smaller and firmer, even perky.
Perky?She’d never used that word to describe herself before.Paddedorfleshywas more apt. She wouldn’t even need to wear a bra to bed at night to keep things in place.
This isn’t my body.
She hurried across the room toward a full-length mirror. When she saw her reflection, she slapped a hand against the wall to steady herself. It had to be some kind of fairground mirror, because it made her look like an Instagram Pilates model— slimmer, toned, with fewer lines, and much less angry. She looked the same age as before but somehow airbrushed all over.
Greta gulped and lifted a hand, watching as the woman in the mirror did the same thing. She stuck out her tongue, and the person copied her. ‘What the actual . . . ?’ she whispered.
She pinched the skin on her thighs and marvelled as it pinged back into shape. Her caesarean scar was gone, and her bitten nails were now manicured into neat, shiny pink ovals.
