Chapter 7
LIGHT DAPPLED THROUGH Greta’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. Padded or fleshy was 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.
Her Greta hairstyle 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 facades, 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.
But that was 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 things this clean.
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 really was in Mapleville, she absolutely had to explore.
Her head swivelled as she walked, taking in the scenery.
Everything was so bright it looked like Technicolor.
Each house had hanging baskets overflowing with flowers, and the trees lining the street popped with pink cherry blossom.
It felt strange not wearing the woolly hat that had been practically glued to her head since autumn.
The sun warmed her face, her shoulders relaxed, and she found a spring in her step she’d long forgotten existed.
All the cars had a similar shape without any make or model badges.
There was no shouting, tooting horns, kids hanging around on street corners, or the sickly sweet smell of vapes or takeaway food.
There were no bins on the street, or empty food cartons blowing along the road like tumbleweed in the Wild West. Everything was spick and span, like a film set come to life.
Except this wasn’t a fake town. It looked very much real.
Children played in a park, wearing primary-coloured clothes, and an ice-cream van tinkled the Maple Gold jingle next to a small lake. Even the cats and dogs looked freshly shampooed and blow-dried.
A line of men and women streamed past Greta, all wearing navy boiler suits with the Maple Gold brand embroidered on the breast pocket. Each was impossibly handsome or beautiful. ‘Where are you going to?’ she asked the last guy in the line.
‘To work,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Those Maple Gold beans won’t roast themselves.’
Greta pirouetted on the spot in amazement, then continued on her way. She spotted a grand clock tower standing proudly in the square, and a town hall with imposing Doric columns exuded an air of importance.
At the end of the street sat the Maple Inn, a charming black- and-white pub with wooden benches neatly arranged outside. A chalkboard sign beside the door announced, Today’s Food Special: Maple Glaze Roast Ham and Chips.
Greta’s belly rumbled. ‘I bet that tastes good,’ she said to herself.
Everywhere felt strangely familiar, as if she’d stepped into a memory that had been somehow polished and enhanced.
She trailed her fingers through the water in a stone fountain in the town square, remembering it had been a backdrop for her and Jim’s on-screen wedding.
They’d enjoyed twirling around it after their ceremony.
The bowl was held aloft by four stone cupids, and the sprinkling water cast tiny rainbows of light in the air.
As Greta explored the town further, she passed a charming house with a garden full of topiary.
The trees were trimmed into the shapes of birds and pyramids.
Marshmallow-pink roses were the size of small cabbages, and she bent her head to smell them.
Their scent was like the finest designer perfume, and she wished she could dab it onto her wrists.
Greta felt lighter and more alive than she had in a long while, silently thanking Iris for helping to bring her here. She was glad she’d been open to the powers of the strange coffee. But how long would its effects last?
She resolved to treat her time in Mapleville as she would a luxurious spa day or mini-break. After spending months hoping to turn things around with Jim it felt good to have some proper breathing space, time to herself she hadn’t realised she’d needed.
When Greta inhaled the rich aroma of Maple Gold filling the air, it smelled of more than just coffee. It held the promise of second chances.
This place was exactly what she’d wished for, and she was determined to savour every moment.
Even if it might all be a dream.