Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour

by Genevieve Dutil

  No, self-confidence like this doesn’t require a six-figure budget to keep up with and right now I am positively swimming in the cheap buzz of it all.

  The Boss slaps me on the back like a football buddy and asks, “So, Princess, are you coming back?” Nothing about that felt anything like a seductive come on. But I’m determined to shift the mood. Emboldened by my new friend Tequila, I rest my hand on his thigh, take a moment to appreciate the delicious firmness and say, “What do I have to do to get you to stop calling me Princess?”

  The Boss smiles. He’s finally starting to warm-up. I feel the heat as he says, “You asked for it when you showed up for work wearing an Hermes belt and a hairnet.”

  I bite the bottom of my lip suggestively and let the tip of my knee embrace the strong denim encasing the well-defined area just above his bulging calf muscle. “What if I go au natural? Would you stop calling me Princess then?”

  I don’t have a lot of experience seducing men and I’m not 100% confident that I’m doing it right. His awkward silence can’t be a good sign. Just when I’m about to dive right in with another double entendre, he says, “You remind me of my girlfriend, Erica. I think you guys knew each other in college. You were her assistant on the Edmonton Equestrian Team or something?”

  What did he just say?

  Then it hits me like trunk filled with pink and chocolate brown wool coolers. “YOU’RE DATING ERICA LEWIS?” I scream as loud as my lungs will allow me. “AND THE STUPID COW TOLD YOU I WAS HER ASSISTANT?!!!” The Boss looks at me like I just grew three heads. I should be embarrassed by my inappropriate behavior, right? But I’m too busy not-so-quietly panicking about this nightmarish turn of events to care. “YOU’RE DATING ERICA LEWIS? ERICA LEWIS!” I bellow one last time into the dark, smoky air of this two-bit watering hole.

  This can’t be happening. Erica Lewis CANNOT re-enter my life right now. Sure, I’ve got all this newfound confidence and crap. But that doesn’t change the fact that the best I can do now is a cheap polo shirt and a pair of outdated breeches! Seriously, Universe, I know I don’t have a whole lot. OK, I know I don’t have ANYTHING. But if you let Erica Lewis back into my life, she will find a way to take it all away from me.

  I am in a state of total despair. But the Boss just keeps on piling it on. “Erica’s family owns most of the horses you galloped this week,” he says. That news is like a hot poker in the open wound that is this whole evening. I knew Erica Lewis’s father owns thoroughbreds. But I had NO IDEA that they are Winning Edge thoroughbreds!

  I can’t help myself. I have to ask, “Do you call her Princess, too?”

  The response breaks my heart. “Sometimes,” he says. A word I have never until now associated with such disappointment.

  That’s it. I’m getting drunk. I have never gotten drunk in my entire life. But I’m already two saddle stretchers into this nightmare and there’s no point in holding back now. Let me tell you, when Margaret Fletcher decides to do something, she goes full force. I don’t even wait for the bartender to return to order another drink. I reach over the bar, grab a half-full bottle of tequila and tell the Boss to take it out of next week’s paycheck. I get three good swigs out of that bottle before the Bartender catches wind of the situation and starts screaming at me for “messin up his set-up.”

  In hindsight, I should be grateful that the shouting caught Emily’s attention, alerting her to my need of rescue. Specifically, rescue from myself. She drags me into the bathroom, splashes water on my face and puts the last five minutes of my life into perspective for me. “Margaret, I don’t know you that well. But I know that you’re not the girl who gets drunk at a crappy bar then demeans herself in public for the sake of some boy.”

  I assure Emily that I’m not drunk. She grabs my face to refocus my gaze back onto her and insists that I am. OK, fine, maybe I’m slightly drunk. But I’m not demeaning myself.

  Emily snorts in derision, “You’re pretty close. I recognize the signs from across the room. The shouting and the slurring of your words. The inability to stabilize yourself on the barstool. Have you ever been drunk before?”

  Of course not! Who does she think I am? My mother? I inform Emily that getting drunk in public is unbecoming. The look on her face suggests that she agrees. When she asks me if I can control myself for the rest of the evening, we both know the answer is no. So, like a good horseman, Emily promises to stick by my side and kick me when I need to get back in line. Sounds like a good deal to me.

  CHAPTER 4

  ~ Emily gets to clean up ~

  I guess they didn’t teach Margaret how to hold her liquor in debutante school. “Emilyth, I didn’t go to debutantaith school. I don’t even know what that is. Where’s the Boss?” And off she goes, stumbling haphazardly towards the last man she should be drunk and ridiculous in front of.

  Margaret seems blissfully unaware of any negative consequences to grabbing the Boss’s bicep and squeezing it inappropriately before demanding, “I want you to X-splain to ME why someonth like you is with something like Erica Lewish!” I’m speechless. And the Boss looks like he’s trying to plan an escape route out of this situation. Margaret continues with an incoherent monologue about stolen ponies, ugly monograms and some guy named Jeff.

  The Boss looks at me and laughs, “It’s a good thing she can ride, right?” (Oh, please, you must be kidding!) He sees my dubious expression. “I’m serious, Em. Have you ever watched her gallop? She has the kind of natural balance that gives everything she sits on confidence. It’s kind of remarkable.”

  I’m stunned by the Boss’s outburst of admiration for Margaret’s riding skills. I haven’t really been paying much attention to the Princess since she started galloping. I’ve got my own horses to worry about. Sure, she did a good job jogging in the beginning and I’ll admit I’m impressed that she hasn’t gotten herself dumped yet. But “the kind of natural balance that gives everything she sits on confidence”? Could that really be true? A loud crashing sound interrupts my thoughts and a fraction of a second later we are treated to the sight of Margaret’s pink paisley cotton underwear and legs in the air. “Ohhhth, Crapth… I fell off my stool.”

  This is exactly the sort of situation that I’m supposed to be looking out for. Oops.

  Seemingly unaware of the irony of the situation, the Boss gingerly helps Margaret to her feet, discreetly encouraging her to cover herself with the skirt that has migrated up around her waist. I point out that I don’t think Margaret is giving that stool a whole lot of confidence. He laughs at my lame joke. But the Boss can’t take his eyes off Margaret, totally mesmerized by her messy patrician charm. I guess it’s a good thing that he has always been a little too “Captain America”, chiseled jaw and prominent forehead for my taste. Because judging by the way he’s handling our tipsy Princess, if I was attracted to him like every other single female in striking distance of Winning Edge Farms, I would have one more reason to envy the little tart.

  Crash! And down she goes again. Gravity is not on this girl’s side tonight. Maybe if we put her up on a nice young thoroughbred, she’ll manage to hold her balance for longer than fifteen seconds. Watching Margaret’s glassy eyes as she steadies herself with the help of the Boss’s awaiting pectoral muscle, I begin to think this is all a carefully-choreographed joke. Then spittle flies off her lips as she insists, “That STOOLTHishhBROKEN!” and I immediately dismiss the thought. I watch her struggle with the lime green and salmon pink skirt that we now know matches her underwear. It’s not the perfect, poised picture she usually presents.

  When Margaret says, “Emilish, I think I need to go home,” I couldn’t agree more.

  NOBODY ASKS ME IF I’M IN THE MOOD TO DEAL WITH A HUNTER PRINCESS in the midst of her first experience with inebriation. The Boss just helps me pour Margaret into the passenger seat of my truck and coaxes an address out of her in her last bit of consciousness.

  If I was smart, I would drive Sloppy Drunk Equestrian Barbie home and call it a night. But I can’t
get what the Boss said about Margaret’s riding out of my head. So before he has a chance to close my door, I lean in and ask, “Do you think she’s a better rider than me?” He pretends not to understand the question. So I ask again, pointed, “Do you think Margaret Fletcher is a better rider than me?”

  He does. It’s written all over his face. But instead of stabbing me in the heart with the cold hard truth, he asks, “Since when are you so insecure?” Since you made that stupid comment about the superhuman, confidence-inspiring balance thing!

  Clearly, I am in no condition to withstand hearing the Boss confirm my worst nightmare. I’m sure he’s wrong anyway. Rich girls don’t really know how to ride. The only thing standing in the way of me surpassing their every accomplishment is that one nice horse I can’t afford. Right?

  “Just tell me, Boss. Is Margaret Fletcher a better rider than me? I promise, I can take it.”

  Of course I can’t. So when the Boss slowly nods his head, tears immediately roll down my cheeks. I want to say something to restore my tough girl image. But I’m pretty sure if I so much as open my mouth, I’ll start blubbering like an idiot. Despite my best efforts, I give myself away. And it’s obvious that the Boss is regretting his role in my trembling chin. He gives me a sympathetic look and says, “You know, you could be just as good as her, Em. But you question yourself too much. The horses feel that.”

  I nod my head and roll up my window before I really let the waterworks come out.

  I can’t believe I thought Margaret was the one getting a bitch slap from reality. Nope, she’s doing just fine, galloping racehorses like she’s been doing it her whole life. It took me six months to progress from jogging to galloping! I sit in the truck immobile for the next twenty minutes, trying to convince myself that this is all just a horrible nightmare. Eventually, my quiet moment is shattered by the elephant roar of Margaret’s persistent snoring in my passenger seat. Fine, Princess. I’ll drive you home.

  Ten minutes later, I arrive at Margaret’s palace. I jostle her awake and make a silent prayer that she can find her keys. Good news. She appears to at least recognize her surroundings, “Come on, Emilythhh. I want to make you hot coco coco.”

  Even with all the natural balance in the world, Margaret is not going to make it to her apartment on her own. Together we stumble through the halls of her building, neither of us with the slightest clue of where we are going. Fortunately, the scent of boot polish and well-conditioned bridle leather leads me to Margaret’s front door.

  The musky odor quadruples once we are inside. Wow. It’s like an overstocked, overpriced, fancy tack store in here. Countless bridles, martingales and breastplates adorn the walls. All of it handcrafted from soft French leather and fine German silver — glowing from meticulous care and conditioning. Several pairs of custom baby calf field boots stand at perfect attention beside a closet that can only be filled with more overpriced breeches and hunt coats. I can’t help but try to calculate of the street value of Margaret’s stash. I bet I could get twenty grand selling it all online without even trying.

  Margaret breaks my reverie with a barely intelligible, “Emilith, you should stay here. It’s a lot nicer than sleepith in your truck.” She opens a cedar-lined oak tack trunk filled with Italian wool horse blankets, prizes from numerous championships. She lovingly fashions me an itchy little nest. “Emilith, you can spend the night sheeeping on my success.”

  That’s it. I’m out of here. I am NOT spending the night SHEEPING on Margaret Fletcher’s success. This place is creepy and sad. And I decide that no amount of superhuman riding talent is going to change that. But then Margaret opens a closet revealing twelve Hermes saddles lined up in a neat little row and makes a gesture encouraging me to select one for myself. I have never been one to covet overpriced tack. But any one of those TWELVE Hermes saddles is worth more than anything I’ve ever owned, and I’m getting the distinct feeling that Margaret is about to give me one in a drunken display of poor judgment.

  “Go ahead. Pick one,” she says like a French leather fairy godmother. The few thousand dollars I could get for an Hermes saddle isn’t going to get me to England. But it’s a start. I know I shouldn’t take advantage of Margaret’s inebriated state. But I point my unremarkably bred finger at a dark Havana model. Margaret scoops up that saddle along with the nearly identical Hermes beside it and places each one on an arm of her sickeningly sweet floral Laura Ashley couch.

  Margaret gestures towards her freshly-saddled furniture and says, “Sit dowTH.” This is getting weird. I should leave right now, saddle or no saddle. But before I have a chance to move a muscle, Margaret straddles her couch and closes her eyes. A look of complete happiness spreads across her face as she says, “There’s nothing like an Hermes. You have to try one.”

  So we’re playing My Little Pony now. The twelve hundred Breyer horses displayed proudly on Margaret’s bookshelves should have clued me in that this one enjoys a rich fantasy life. Free Hermes saddle? What was I thinking? Margaret Fletcher isn’t giving up one square inch of her stash of baby calf. And then I notice that Margaret has lulled herself into some kind of creepy little trance. It’s a sight more disturbing than her behavior back at the bar. Even though there is only so much personal damage she can do locked in her own apartment, I feel compelled to stay.

  “EmilyTH, imagine that you are sitting on the most elegant horse you’ve ever seen. You canter into the Dixon Oval. The crowd is hushed as you lay down the trip of a lifetime. Your pace is perfect, your distances are shhhpot on, and your horse is jumping the snot out of everything for you.” (Instead, I am imagining how I could transport all this equipment out of Margaret’s apartment in the time it takes her to sleep off one too many saddle stretchers. I’m not a thief. It’s a morally complicated fantasy. It’s just that this crap could solve a whole lot of my problems.)

  The sound of Margaret crashing to the floor puts an end to my impure thoughts. Natural balance, my ass. “Uhhh ohh. I got bucked offfth the couch,” she giggles. With no regard for the six thousand dollar saddle that just came crashing down on top of her, Margaret crawls on all fours in the direction of the Championship blankets littering the floor. “Don’t worry about me. I do thishh all the time. Ever since I went broke.”

  I can’t take this anymore. I know Margaret is too drunk to realize what she is saying and I should probably just leave her here to sleep it off, but I can’t help myself. I scream at the top of my lungs, “You’ve got five figures worth of tack locked up in this crackhead pony princess shrine of yours, just so you can pet it and cover it in oil! You are not BROKE!!!!!”

  Margaret responds by throwing up all over her Devon Horse Show Working Hunter Championship Cooler from 2012. “Woopthhh,” she burps loudly.

  Woopthhh indeed. I’m pretty sure that nothing I am saying is registering. But that doesn’t stop me from pointing out that if Margaret sold even HALF this stuff (the part she hasn’t barfed on), she could buy a nice new show horse.

  Predictably, my logic is lost on the Princess. “You can’t buy a horse with a couple of used saddlethhh,” she offers up another burp, “Besides, if I sold all my saddlethh, what would I ride the horse in?”

  Why am I wasting my time arguing with a crazy person? But I can’t help myself. “Margaret, none of this stuff you’re hanging onto has anything to do with being a horseman. You realize that, right?” She gives me a look that is equal parts hurt and confused. It would be better for both of us if she would just pass out right now. Instead, she asks, “What’s your problem?”

  What’s my problem? “You know what, Margaret? No matter how hard I work or how much I try, I can’t get anywhere. Meanwhile, girls like you have everything handed to them and half the time you’re too worried about something stupid like a hairnet to appreciate the good fortune.”

  The corners of Margaret’s glassy eyes suddenly fill with real tears. Something about the drunken puppy dog look on her face pulls at my heartstrings as she cries, “Eth Toooth, Emilith? Eth
Tooothhh?”

  OK, I don’t know what “Eth Tooothh” means. But Margaret is on a roll and I don’t dare stop her. “All my life I’ve been told that the only person responsible for my successthh was my father’s money. I was told that I would be NOTHINGTHHHH without Daddyth’s money! Now look at me. I’m broke. I can’t even affordth a horse and you’re still SAYING IT ABOUTH ME!” She bursts into big, sloppy, uncontrollable tears.

  Oh dear. Maybe I was too hard on her. I’ve really painted myself into a corner here. Now I’ve got to pray that Margaret stops crying or passes out from dehydration. I apologize and explain that I’m just a little touchy about money right now. Margaret responds that she liketh tooth touchy the moneythhh too. Her tears turn into giggles. Maybe I can get out of here before the stench of vomit makes me sick.

  But Margaret isn’t finished. She grabs my arms, looks me straight in the eye and says, “Let me tell you a secret. Having money isnith so great. Everybody just shits around and waits for you to fail. It suckth. The only thing good about ith you get to have a lot of horses.”

  “Or you get to travel to England, train with your childhood idol and become an international champion,” I bitterly mutter.

  “What are youth talking about,” she asks. Margaret is the last person I feel like discussing the limitations of my poverty with. How could she possibly understand?

  Oh, what the hell. I’m sure she’s too drunk to remember anything that I tell her anyway. So I slump down on the sweet cabbage rose print Laura Ashley couch and explain everything about Turtle, her offer and the twenty thousand dollars standing between me and my destiny. I’m surprised by how closely Margaret is listening to my tale of woe, nodding her head with sympathy at all the right moments and developing an unmistakable look of concern in her eyes.