“Emilith, I will fix this problem for you,” she promises. Oh please, the girl can’t even keep her paisley panties under cover in mixed company. How on earth is she going to solve a real problem? “Let me tell you a secret, Emilith. There is nothing I love more than figuring out how to solve a good problem. I was the firsthh Hunter Princeth in my barn to figure out that spraying Show Sheen on your calves helpthhh sticky boots slide on. That didn’t matter so much when everyone started putting zippers on their booths. But that trick helped a lot people that couldn’t afford zippers. And I always felt really good about that. I like helping friends. You are my friend. I give you my solemn oaththhh that I will help you.” Then, as if soothed by the prospect of becoming my savior, Margaret curls up in a ball in the center of her itchy success. She’s asleep in seconds.
I lock the door behind me when I leave. We wouldn’t want anyone to lift any of that precious tack. Because that would be wrong. No matter how many of my real world problems it would solve and how few of Margaret Fletcher’s fantasy fairy princess problems a theft would complicate…
***
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: Working Student Position
I apologize for taking so long to respond to your generous offer. For the past seven days, I have been carefully weighing the pros and cons. So far, I’ve come up with six hundred and seventy seven pros and only one con. The con being the small matter of that twenty thousand US dollars that I don’t possess or have plans to accumulate anytime soon. So it is with a heavy heart that I must decline this totally amazing opportunity of a lifetime. Please know that I have printed out your email, placed in a frame and hung it over the space heater in my trailer for those times when I need to be reminded of what could have been.
Best of luck at your next Olympics.
***
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
Re: Working Student Position
I’ll hold your spot for three months. I figure that should be enough time for a plucky girl like you to figure out how to get her mitts on twenty thousand US dollars. Best of luck and try not to get yourself into too much trouble or light your horse box on fire.
***
AS IF ANYTHING COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN in three months to change my financial situation. I’ll admit part of me is hoping for some magical solution to my twenty thousand dollar problem. But I’m not some rich kid masquerading as the working poor while twenty thousand dollars of fine equestrian equipment is locked up in my creepy apartment full of little plastic horsey figurines. It’s time to start living in reality.
And the reality is: Margaret Fletcher is poetry in motion on a horse. I finally stopped what I was doing long enough to watch her gallop. The Boss is right. Her hands are soft; her position is strong; and the horses just go better for her.
Once again, my understanding of the horse world — and my place in it — is completely turned upside down.
CHAPTER 5
~ Margaret gets a sweet tooth ~
We’re not going to talk about my behavior the other night. It was unseemly, unacceptable and uncharacteristic. “Oh, Margaret, honey, have a gin and tonic. I didn’t raise you to be such a stick in the mud!” Since when is encouraging one’s daughter to develop a recreational drinking problem considered good parenting? Not that I could ever rely on Mother to be much of a role model. What kind of woman voluntarily shortens her hamstrings for the sake of high fashion? No wonder I lost all control at my first whiff of tequila. I was raised by grain alcohol’s number one fan.
But I’m not too worried about the slow and steady destruction of my character. Because the past two weeks at Winning Edge have been a whirlwind of personal growth. With experience, comes confidence. I got run away with and survived and I rarely get nervous enough to throw up before galloping anymore. I’ve mastered the art of wrapping an ace bandage around whatever bruised appendage is bothering me at the moment, and I’ve got a kitchen cabinet full of over the counter pain medication to make me feel like new again. Being surrounded by tiny jockeys in tight pants should spell disaster for a young woman raised in the body-conscious Equitation world. But my waistline is shrinking, my thighs are hardening and my concept of feminine beauty is changing with each new layer of muscle. My mother would insist that I’m starting to look like a boy. Even if she’s right, I feel like a goddess.
Speaking of heavenly creatures, the Boss is striding towards me with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Gorgeous. It’s been a few days since the fateful night he revealed his relationship with Erica Lewis. I can’t help but notice that he hasn’t mentioned her name since the last time I fell off my barstool. Maybe they broke up. It happens. Something better comes along and suddenly the boney little demonic harpy you used to find attractive no longer seems appealing. Sure, one doesn’t want to cross the boundaries of the employee/employer relationship contract. But feelings are feelings.
The Boss reaches his destination by my side, but no invitation for any kind of extracurricular activity is extended. Instead, he starts babbling on about a horse he bought with money he doesn’t have. His name is Box of Chocolates and his daddy was a big deal back in his day. Chocolates, on the other hand, is turning out to be a real dud. All the ingredients are there: impeccable breeding, beautiful conformation and legs that can run for days. But Chocolates isn’t having any of this tawdry racetrack lifestyle. And for reasons that aren’t completely clear, the Boss decided to buy the little prima donna in hopes that he can somehow turn his attitude around.
I don’t really care about anything the Boss is saying. I’m simply watching his soft, welcoming lips as they form words like “beautiful hindquarters” and “sloping shoulder.” But when he says, “Chocolates seems kind of horrified by the size of his stall and the quality of grain the staff serves. I figure if anyone can help him transition to life on the wrong side of the tracks, Princess can,” I’m not amused. It is one thing for me to call myself Princess. But it is a totally different situation when the Boss mocks me with my royal title.
Sure, there will always be a part of Margaret Fletcher that feels more comfortable in a hairnet. But when I look at the overpriced filly trotting towards me in an impossibly shiny Hermes belt and custom crocodile paddock boots, I know that I am no longer a Princess. And for the first time in three years, I am happy to give up the title.
Erica Lewis. There she is in all her glory. Skinny, beautiful and rotten to the core.
The last time I saw Erica, her pants were wrapped around her ankles and her naked bottom was covered in far too much “Monkey Butt” powder. Compromising pose aside, I was the one who was in the vulnerable position then.
Three years later, the dynamic between us still has not shifted. We both know I’m the wounded animal here and Erica wastes no time going in for the easy kill. “Oh, Margaret, I hope things aren’t as bad as you look. I mean, THEY look. I can’t believe I just said that!”
I’m willing to admit that Erica Lewis had the power to make the old Margaret Fletcher feel insecure. I’ve always been jealous of her thigh to calf ratio and flexible ankle. The Equitation judges just loved her. All she had to do was sit in a saddle with that perfectly proportioned leg of hers and they handed out blue ribbons like they were going out of style.
“I can’t believe you’re working for my family now. How weird is that? I just had to come down and see you toiling away in the trenches.”
I remind myself that I am not the girl I used to be. I’ve grown. I’ve matured. I am a Goddess now. I gather up all my newfound Gallop Girl strength, unclench my jaw and say, “It’s good to see you, Erica.” But despite my effort to appear cool, the sweat trickling down my forehead gives me away.
Savoring my discomfort, Erica tosses her hair back and looks at me like a hungry lion about to devour something small and fu
zzy. “You know galloping is going to ruin your equitation. I’ve seen it happen. Perfectly decent riders start looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re never going back on the Circuit.”
Bitch.
I’ll admit that last comment stung. I take a moment to gather myself. Determined not to let Erica see me sweat (who am I kidding? I’m spritzing like an oversized Italian marble fountain), I casually say, “Oh, I don’t know about that, Erica. Now that I’m back in the game, I have every intention of returning to the Circuit.”
Erica raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow in disbelief. But I’m not backing down. I stuff my sweaty palms into my pockets and defiantly insist, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll make my debut at the New London Classic later this summer.”
I should know better than to tangle with an unrepentant sociopath on her own turf. And as much as I hate to admit it, Winning Edge is Erica Lewis’s turf. Like that fuzzy little bird of prey, I never had a chance.
“Margaret, I know what you gallop girls make. My father pays your salary, remember? I think it’s cute that you’re trying. But we both know that you can’t possibly afford anything more than the occasional coin operated pony ride at the grocery store.”
I don’t think the Boss has ever seen his beautiful little Princess (I’m referring to Erica, NOT ME!) behave so ugly. And when Erica catches sight of the disapproving expression on his face, she immediately softens her tone. “Don’t worry, Margaret. You’re not missing a thing. Now that I ride in the Grand Prix, I’m too focused on making the U.S. Equestrian team. It’s bye-bye, fun and games. Hello, prize money and Olympic glory. You would probably hate it. You know, if things are as bad as I know they are, I can probably get you a job on my new reality T.V. show. I’M GOING TO BE A REALITY T.V. STAR! Can you believe it? I guess my life is pretty glamorous. You know how America loves seeing how the other half lives! But seriously, it’s a lot of hard work. Sometimes I don’t know how I do it all!”
I give the Boss a desperate look, begging him to make his creature crawl back into her shell. But I don’t think he fully appreciates just how wretched Erica is behaving until she says, “But I guess all that hard work is worth it. Because there is no better feeling than riding the perfect jump off and knowing you haven’t left room for anyone to catch you. Listen to me going on about all the amazing horses I’m riding now while you’re trapped in your new “pony girl for hire” lifestyle. I’m terrible!”
The Boss opens his mouth for the first time since this whole nightmare of a conversation started and says, “Oh, I don’t think you have to feel too sorry for Margaret. She galloped your father’s new prized colt yesterday.”
I’m not really sure what he is talking about. I don’t remember any talk of a prized colt. But Erica has a look of envy on her face that I haven’t seen since my order of custom hand-woven monogrammed hairnets shipped in from France before hers. She squeaks, “The one Daddy paid five million dollars for?”
I feel the tectonic shift of this situation moving in my favor. I can see the wheels turning in Erica’s head as she says, “Daddy never bought me a five million dollar horse,” then deflates into a harmless little child too consumed by her own insecurity to hurt anyone anymore.
The Boss flashes me a private smile, and it hits me. Erica Lewis and I have one last thing in common: daddy issues. I suppose a better person would be overcome by empathy in this situation. Instead, I pick up the baton and pile on, “Right, Erica? I had no idea that a horse could even cost five million dollars! I’m sure you can imagine how silly I felt remembering how special I used to feel when MY Daddy bought me one of those six figure imports from Germany. As if six figures is a lot of money for a horse.”
On cue, Erica bursts into tears and runs off as fast as her crocodile paddock boots can carry her. I look at the Boss with the perfect innocent shrug, “Was it something I said?”
A look of regret washes over the Boss’s face. “Princess, I have a feeling I’m going to pay for that later. I just hate when she plays that bratty little rich girl routine.” Routine? I don’t know. That just looked like Erica Lewis being Erica Lewis to me. But I hold my tongue. Instead of pointing out the obvious, I say, “You know she’s on the phone with her trainer right now demanding he find her a six million dollar jumper for Daddy to buy.”
The Boss laughs. His eye crinkle. I swoon. Then he pats me on the back like we’re old drinking buddies and walks off in the direction of his woman.
Emily is right. Life just isn’t fair.
BOX OF CHOCOLATES
Box of Chocolates sold for twenty million dollars as a yearling. The combined value of every horse I have ever sat on in my entire life does not come close to twenty million dollars. I can only imagine what it’s going to feel like to ride that all of that pedigree at once.
I arrive at the barn exactly on time and ready to gallop my heart out with my new royal charge. I find a horse that I assume to be Chocolates all tacked up and standing in the barn aisle. He looks a lot more relaxed than your average young colt. Must be the quiet confidence that comes when one is the product of perfect breeding. I can’t help but admire the dapples on his glossy coat and his long wavy tail. His soft bedroom eyes seem to carry a wisdom… Oh dear, he just backed into a fresh pile of poop. And he’s just standing there, ankle deep in another horse’s excrement like it’s not even a problem. That doesn’t seem like a very royal way to behave. This can’t be right.
There’s the Boss, appearing just in time to redirect me to the proper horse. But he takes one look at the soiled equine standing across from me and says, “Hang on, Princess, I’m going to get you a heavier whip.” I’m getting the sinking feeling that Mr. Pooper over here is my ride.
The Boss returns with the biggest, heaviest whip I’ve ever seen. He slaps it in my left hand and warns me that Chocolates can be a little lazy. Oh, please. Try riding an overweight warmblood in the dead of summer after your trainer insisted that he needed to be lunged for an hour before his class. Chocolates may not look like much of a firecracker, but I highly doubt this well-bred racehorse is lazy. I hop on the beast and sternly remind myself to not judge a book by its cover, as I prepare to discover what riding twenty million dollars of horseflesh feels like.
“A little lazy” turns out to be the understatement of the decade. Who the hell paid twenty million dollars for this horse? It barely moves! But Margaret Fletcher is not one to give up easily. I deliver a strong whack to Sir Highness’s butt with that five hundred pound whip. Nothing. I get the feeling that he’s happy to canter all day long. A real racehorse gallop is not something that Box of Chocolates ever plans to achieve. I feel like a failure. It’s like getting kicked off the Edmonton College Equestrian Team all over again.
But then, something magical happens. My frustration melts into a feeling of bliss and I’m reminded of the simple joy of riding a hunter. A nice, quiet, pleasant hunter. The kind of horse that’s happy to spend a long, lazy day cantering out in the countryside chasing foxes. I’ve never had any interest in fox hunting. It’s my understanding that those who do spend most of their time in the saddle a little tipsy and covered in mud. But showing a hunter is a whole other ball of wax. The outfits are gorgeous, the horses are gentlemanly and the company is downright civilized. No one expects you to chase a wild animal around a muddy field. One simply has to canter around a manicured arena in a manner that convinces the judge that you and your horse would look fabulous chasing a fox with a flask of hot port strapped to your side. The longer I enjoy Box of Chocolate’s smooth, effortless canter, the more I’m convinced that is where he belongs.
I’ve heard the urban legend about people buying thoroughbreds on the track for cheap and turning them into something special in the show ring. My trainers used to assure me those stories are fantasies poor girls tell themselves around the Pony Club campfire. But riding Chocolate’s canter is like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and suddenly realizing leprechauns are real.
The Boss shatters my reverie at the top of his lungs with, “Do what I’m paying you to do and gallop my horse!” I’ve never been one to argue with authority figures. Unless one considers my mother an authority figure. But this horse is not a racehorse and I’m not going to pretend I have any hope of convincing him to become one. So I hop off Chocolates, hand the reins to the Boss and apologize for failing to follow orders.
Defeated, he suppresses his initial impulse to rip my head off for dereliction of duty and says, “Do yourself a favor, Princess. Ignore anyone who tries to convince you to invest your money in a proven loser. Unless you want to make a habit out of filling up your stable with a bunch of well-bred, no talent hay burners.”
“Well-bred, no talent hay burner”? Yeah, I’ve heard that term of endearment before. If memory serves me correctly, that’s exactly what Erica Lewis called me when she kicked me off the Edmonton Equestrian team. Maybe I’m still high off my trip down Hunter Princess memory lane. Maybe it’s the way Box of Chocolates uses my sweaty brow as his own personal salt lick, inadvertently removing my hairnet and revealing a sexy unkempt ‘do that is definitely catching the Boss’s attention. Or maybe I just feel sorry for the colt. So much untapped talent going to waste just because he happened to be born into the wrong situation. Who knows? But something totally unexpected is prompting cautious, predictable, pragmatic Margaret Fletcher to throw caution to the wind.
I put my hand on Chocolates’s shoulder, do my best impression of a savvy negotiator appraising the value of a used car she is not even sure she wants to buy, and I cautiously offer to take Chocolates off the Boss’s hands. He reminds me that he claimed the horse for ten thousand dollars. I don’t have ten thousand dollars. Or any amount of money resembling ten thousand dollars.
My attempt to purchase Box of Chocolates appears to be dead in the water. Until later that afternoon when Sam finds some heat in Chocolate’s tendon. And the only thing worse than a no-talent hay burner is a no-talent hay burner with a minor soundness issue that isn’t going to hold up to the demands of racehorse training.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 6