HerGretahairstyle was back, all silky, thick and several shades of honey gold. She tossed her head as if starring in an eighties rock video, admiring the way it shimmered. The whites of her eyes gleamed, and the deep lines between her eyebrows had vanished. No wonder Nora was so keen on injectables.
At the thought of her agent, Greta swallowed hard. Had Nora arranged for her to be kidnapped and transformed for some kind of bizarre reality show? Would her agent really stoop that low to earn commission? Or perhaps Iris had laced her coffee with a sleeping potion, or something hallucinogenic. Whatever had happened, it was unsettling, bizarre . . . and also kind of wonderful. Thank goodness she still had a grape-sized birthmark on her left shoulder, a small reassurance that she was still herself.
When she heard voices in the street outside, Greta felt suddenly vulnerable in her nightie. Wrapping her arms around her body, she quickly stepped over to the wardrobe, where she found a pale blue dress hanging inside. It looked very similar to the one she’d cut herself out of, and she hurriedly pulled it on, surprised to find it fit her perfectly.
The fabric felt expensive and made her want to swish the dress from side to side. A matching pair of baby-blue heels sat nearby, a style she’d never usually wear, and she wondered where her jeans and scuffed Adidas Gazelles had vanished to.
One tiny handbag sat on a shelf, too small to hold her purse, phone, mints, tweezers, hand sanitising wipes, headache tablets, pen, shopping list, shopping trolley token, lipstick and packet of tissues. The thought of not carrying enough stuff for a mountaineering expedition made her feel twitchy.
Eager to know what was going on, Greta tiptoed over to the window and peeked around the curtain. As she took in the view outside, her jaw dropped in disbelief.
This is not Longmill.
The sky was endless, the lightest blue, and the sun shone high and golden. The lawn was so shiny and emerald it looked plastic, and daisies and buttercups were arranged at precise intervals. A low white picket fence framed the garden, so pristine it looked freshly painted. Beyond it, a village of neatly uniform white houses and gardens stretched out. Each home had two windows upstairs, two downstairs, and a glossy brown door perfectly centred. Colourful flowerbeds spilled over with vibrant blooms, their petals dancing in a light breeze.
The place looked exactly like Mapleville.
But how could that be?
Mapleville was a fictitious town dreamed up by advertising executives. The houses in the commercials had been painted façades, propped up by wooden supports. Greta used to walk through the front door in one shot, and in the next she’d be in the studio, with the set made to look like a cosy sitting room or kitchen.
Now a whole town stood before her. She’d wished for her life to be like a coffee commercial, and it appeared to have come true. Everything suggested that Iris’s brew had transported her to a make-believe place, one modelled on the commercials she’d starred in. Butthatwas impossible. Surely she must be dreaming. How long was it going to last?
Making her way downstairs, Greta felt like she was sleepwalking. She passed through a sitting room with ivory linen sofas and perfectly plumped cushions that looked like they belonged in a magazine shoot. They’d never suit her flat at home, always showing dirt. And the off-white carpet was an accident waiting to happen.
A glass coffee table sat in the centre of the room, reflecting the golden light pouring in through the window. It was so spotless it gleamed, without a speck of dust in sight. Greta wondered what magical cleaning products made thingsthisclean.
She opened her front door, gripping the handle as she watched people pass by in the street.
‘Morning. A day like this makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it?’ one man said aloud to no one in particular.
‘Good day to you.’ Another man tipped his hat in her direction.
‘Love your dress,’ a lady called out, even though hers looked exactly the same. ‘Such a pretty colour.’
Greta was too taken aback by all the enthusiasm to respond. The people must all be actors. They were too good-looking to be everyday folk.
She was used to Lottie grunting at her in the morning, and Jim didn’t usually speak until he’d drunk at least two espressos. All this positivity felt like a nice change. She took a moment to relish the cheeriness, her lips twitching into a smile.
A couple of white butterflies fluttered past, and five men wearing suits, boater hats and bow-ties arrived at the edge of Greta’s lawn. They exchanged smiles and started to sing, their voices harmonising beautifully.
When you wake at sunrise,
and open your eyes.
It’s a brand-new day,
and you’ll soon find your way.
You’re always at home with Maple Gold.
The a cappella singers from the Maple Gold commercials.
Greta had never seen them in person before, only heard their jingle at the end of the ads. She wondered if they’d tweaked the lyrics just for her.
She hummed the jingle to herself, trying to process everything around her. This place was pristine, pretty much perfect. And it was starting to feel like fun.
As Greta stepped onto her shiny lawn, curiosity twinkled inside her. If she reallywasin Mapleville, she absolutely had to explore.
