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

by Genevieve Dutil

  I don’t know which sight is more pleasing: Geoff Maurice executing a perfectly-balanced flying lead change on the horse I bought for a dollar, or the look on Erica’s face suggesting that at any minute her head might explode.

  “People today don’t have the patience to find a horse like this. They don’t have the patience to learn to RIDE a horse like this. Everything has to be easy. Oh, Margaret, what a horse. What a horse! It takes TALENT to find a horse like this. It takes TALENT to RIDE a horse like this. If you don’t have TALENT, you have to go to Europe and spend a lot of money. Right, Erica? Oh Margaret, do I have to give him back? Don’t make me give this horse back,” he says as he counter-canters circles around Erica’s overprice import. “If I were a younger man, I would buy this horse and win the grand prix of AACHEN on this horse!”

  And then the most important man in the entire equestrian world dismounts Chocolates, hands me the reins and says, “He is different now and I expect you to ride him well today.”

  It’s amazing what twenty minutes of schooling from a top professional can do. Chocolates is a different horse. He’s soft, supple, relaxed and confident in his work. As I approach my first jump, so am I.

  “BEAUtiful!”

  Let’s make that an oxer and raise it three inches.

  “Super, Margaret. SUPER!”

  For my final trick of the day, I’ll put a loop in the reins and canter on down the line like we’ve doing this our whole life.

  “Ahhh… she’s good. She’s good that Margaret!”

  That’s right. That Margaret, she is good.

  CHAPTER 16

  ~ Emily Takes the High Ground ~

  I’m not sure how to process what just happened. Chocolates was nothing short of amazing today. I should be thrilled, right? So why am I filled with uncontrollable envy? I OWN half of that horse, remember? The better he is, the more money I pocket when he sells. I’ve already come to terms with Margaret’s meteoric rise to Gallop Girl success. So she had an easier time learning how to gallop than I did. That doesn’t prove anything. Yes, she rode well today. But I’m pretty sure that if I had been stupid enough to ride a green off-the-track thoroughbred in a Geoff Maurice clinic, I would have done just as well.

  My emotions are not making any sense. I decide to take a long walk around the farm to collect my thoughts while Margaret prepares Chocolates for the drive home.

  As I wander around my lush surroundings, I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I had even half of what Erica Lewis has. I don’t care about the cobblestone barn aisles or the shiny brass nameplates hanging on the stalls. It’s the opportunities that I’m envious of. Imagine having nothing to do all day but ride a stable full of beautiful, talented horses. The bottomless competition budget, the best trainers in the country, the trips to Europe when those trainers think it’s time to grab some international experience. Where would I be in my career if money wasn’t a limiting factor?

  As Erica Lewis trots towards me with a five-man T.V. crew in tow, I can’t help but think that I definitely wouldn’t be wasting my time with a ridiculous equestrian princess reality T.V show for some hack cable network.

  I immediately regret my decision to leave Margaret’s side as Erica calls out, “Emily! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Before I have a chance to run in the opposite direction as fast as I can, Erica grabs my arm with her perfectly-polished claws and pulls me towards the barn.

  “Do you mind if we move into the tack room for a chat?” she screeches, “BOYS! Let’s set up in the tack room!” Being trapped in a tack room with the likes of Erica Lewis is the last place I want to be right now. But her freakishly sharp fingernails are drawing blood from my bicep. I’m afraid that if I pull away, I might lose an arm.

  Erica’s tack room is lit up like a Barbara Walter’s Christmas Special. Before I know what hits me, some “dude” wearing a Sundance Film Festival T-shirt shoves a release form with the title, Erica Lewis, One Rider’s Journey to the Olympic Gold, under my nose.

  “It’s a working title,” Erica explains, “The production team will only use it if I actually make it to the Olympics of course. Listen to me being all humble! Hey, Brad, make sure to get my Hermes saddles in the shot. Middle America will love that!”

  Against my better judgment, I scribble my name across the bottom of the paper. And just when I thought things could not get any weirder, Erica says, “Hey, Brad, let’s shoot Emily only from the neck up. I don’t want my viewers thinking I buy horses from stable hands.”

  Before I have a chance to ask the lunatic standing across from me what she’s talking about, Brad yells, “Action!” Erica’s voice suddenly gets ten octaves lower, carrying a dramatic-flare appropriate for a bad Mexican soap opera, as she recites, “Emily, I am so glad I ran into you. I would like to make an offer on that horse you are selling. I think he has the potential to take me all the way to the Olympics.”

  Is this some kind of joke? Off my confused/horrified/disgusted expression, Brad yells, “Cut!”

  The lights are making Erica sweat like she’s actually working, and I can tell by the look of growing irritation on her face that she doesn’t enjoy the sensation. Her voice is back to its regular screech, as she demands that someone bring her a fresh polo shirt and a Gatorade. Margaret should be about done cooling out Chocolates. Even if she’s not, I’ve had enough of this circus.

  But Erica is not letting me out of her clutches that easily. “Emily!! Where are you going?!!! I’m trying to buy your horse from you! Now, this time when I say action, say something nice about how exciting it is to sell your horse to a rider with so much potential and talent. Action!”

  Erica’s eyes get all dark and serious again. I dare not move a muscle. With a look that can only be described as “sexy Cruella De Vil”, Erica says, “Emily, I am prepared to offer you sixty thousand dollars. Do you accept this generous offer?”

  Generous offer? What the hell is she talking about? Erica throws her hands up in the air, yells CUT and starts screaming again about that fresh polo shirt. “I’m starting to get pit stains here!!!!” A wardrobe assistant appears from out of the blue with fifteen different white cotton polo shirts for Erica to choose from. A confused, crazed expression clouds Mommy Dearest’s face as she says, “Why do these all have burgundy monograms???? I said I wanted a shirt monogrammed in every color BUT burgundy. NOT every shirt IN burgundy!!!! Someone better fix this!!!!”

  Brad kills the lights and the room is instantly twenty degrees cooler. Four terrified little production assistants are sent into town in search of acceptable polo shirts and the crew breaks for lunch. Nobody here seems to realize that they’re trapped in The Twilight Zone. OK. I’ll just back away slowly.

  But Erica grabs my arm again and squeezes as she says, “EMILY, I’m serious. Don’t worry. I don’t have any delusions of taking that skinny little thoroughbred of yours to the Olympics. The producers are worried that show isn’t glamorous enough to attract the non-equestrian audience. So I talk about the Olympics a lot and make Brad shoot close-ups of anything with a Hermes logo.”

  I have never wanted out of a barn so much in my entire life. But Erica has me firmly in her clutches. So I ask, “Why do you want to buy him?”

  This whole experience is almost worth enduring just to see the indignant look on her face as she snaps back, “I resent that! I don’t want to buy Brad! Daddy is funding the project because as a businessman he knows a good opportunity when he sees one!”

  I clarify that I meant to ask why she wants to buy CHOCOLATES.

  “What can I say? I like buying Margaret’s stuff. I loved buying every last one of Margaret’s show horses after her family went broke. Oh, I didn’t need the horses. I already had more than I could possibly ride. But who could resist an opportunity to twist the knife that was already stuck in Margaret’s back?”

  What a bitch. No wonder Margaret can’t stand letting this woman get the best of her.

  Erica takes out a checkbook and
starts writing me one for sixty thousand dollars. I stand there, completely frozen with indecision. Half of sixty thousand dollars would get me to England for sure. I could leave tomorrow. I should be all over this, right? So why do I have a pit in my stomach?

  I tell Erica that I need time to talk this over with Margaret. Chocolates is her horse, too, so I can’t do anything without her OK.

  Erica looks at me like I’m a fool and says, “Yeah, well, Margaret hates it when I buy her ponies. I’m counting on you to smooth things over. Maybe you could just tell her you sold him to one of your Pony Club buddies.”

  When I explain to Erica that I don’t have any “Pony Club buddies” with sixty thousand dollars to spend on a horse, she laughs like I just said the funniest thing in the world. “You don’t tell her you sold the horse for sixty thousand dollars, silly! I’ll make the check directly to you. Give Margaret a couple grand and pocket the rest. I approached you directly, so you should get a bigger piece of the pie for, like, putting the deal together and everything.”

  And that’s when I discover that Erica Lewis is, in fact, pure evil. There is no way I’m selling that horse to her now. My relationship with Margaret may not conform to the traditional definition of friendship. But I am not the kind of girl who screws over her almost-friend just to make a buck.

  I take great pleasure in telling Erica that she can take her check for sixty thousand dollars and shove it.

  She just shakes her head and says, “That’s really sweet, Emily, but let me give you some advice. This is a tough business, especially for the plucky little girl living in her trailer. You can’t be afraid to get your hands a little dirty.”

  That’s rich coming from a girl who can’t make it fifteen minutes wearing the same polo shirt.

  I’M NOT GOING TO TELL MARGARET about this whole unsavory conversation. The last thing I need is for her to think that I plan to make a habit out of putting her needs before mine.

  This was a one-time deal. From now on, I’m not going to let anything get in between me and that one-way ticket to England.

  CHAPTER 17

  ~ Margaret forgets who she is ~

  I’m still high off my weekend with Geoff. Seriously, could life get any better? Then I see Matty’s name next to mine on the Boss’s exercise chart. Yay! I’ve pretty much decided that Chocolates is my equine doppelganger, but Matty is my muse. I can’t wait to get on him and feel all that wonderful horsey energy and excitement that he’s got coursing through his veins.

  The Boss meets me at the barn where Matty is waiting in the crossties. He’s got his business face on as he instructs, “Remember, this one can be a handful. So don’t let your guard down for one second.” I don’t know why the Boss is acting so uptight. It’s as if he forgot that I’M the one that galloped the snot out of him the other day. I pat the Boss on his strong, well-developed shoulder and assure him, “It’s OK, Boss. I think it’s safe to say that I know what I’m doing here.”

  I stroke Matty’s neck as I extract him from the crossties. We had a good go the other day, didn’t we? Now let’s show the rest of these wannabes how it’s done and tear up this track! The Boss rolls his eyes. Once again leaving me with the creepy impression that he can read my mind. I think to myself, “Take me now you handsome devil!” Crickets. All I get from the Boss is a totally unnecessary leg up. I know I’m strong enough to catapult myself up onto this beautiful beast with that same graceful, sweeping motion that Emily loves to show off. But I let the Boss have his way. Anything to give him a chance to check out my well-toned derriere, right?

  There is absolutely nothing playful about the way the Boss says, “All right, Princess. You’re just jogging Matty today.” It’s a letdown for sure. No flirting. No galloping. I’m not sure why the Boss is so determined to make this just another boring day at the office.

  But that doesn’t stop me from winking atop my steed and saying, “You’re the Boss, Boss.” I can’t believe how flirtatious that was. What can I say? This horse gives me courage. Besides, now that I know the Boss is a total Hunter Princess man-slut, I’m less concerned about looking like a floozy. Who is he to judge, right?

  I mosey onto to the training track with complete confidence.

  And immediately get run away with like I have never been run away with before.

  All I can hear are Matty’s hooves pounding, my heart racing and the Boss screaming. Matty is running hell-bent for leather and there is absolutely NOTHING I can do to stop him.

  This is not exhilarating. This is terrifying. More terrifying than that moment when you realize you’ve outgrown your old custom boots and are forced to ask yourself if you’re experiencing a normal growth spurt or an unacceptable weight gain. Time seems to have slowed down, giving me the chance to ask myself, “What the hell are you doing with your life, Princess?”

  And with that, I’m catapulted into the air at forty miles an hour.

  Smash. I bite the dust. Everything is blurry. I’m totally disoriented.

  A wise old man with a fuzzy beard stands over me and says, “Kid, are you alright?” God? Is that God? Wait. Why does God’s breath smell like a Denny’s Grand Slam Special? The name Sam swirls around my scrambled brain. I wonder what happened to God. “I THINK SHE’S OK,” God screams. “She’s just needs a shot of whisky before she’s good to ride another one!”

  And then it hits me. I’m probably dead.

  The silhouette of a strapping, Adonis-like creature approaches, and I know I’ve made it to heaven. “Princess, can you move?” he asks. Yes, my love. I’m not minding being dead so much if it means I get a hot new boyfriend.

  But then the shrill sound of someone screaming, “Margaret!!! MARGARET!!! Oh my God! Is she OK?” takes me back to the living. Thanks, Emily. I always knew I could count on you to suck the fun right out of a good situation.

  I look down at my body to make sure it’s still in one piece. Something is very wrong here. I am wearing jeans! Why am I wearing jeans! Who put these things on me? I look like some kind of farmworker. Nobody is taking my concerns seriously. They’re just calling for a paramedic and yelling at me not to move. Where do these people think I am planning to go? I’m wearing jeans! I am certainly not going to go out in public dressed like this!

  Twenty minutes later, I’m still screaming, “Margaret Fletcher does not ride in jeans! Why do I look so poor and dirty?!”

  Only now I’m screaming it at a hospital. Good news: I can walk and all my bones are in order. But it seems I have a concussion. At first, I think the doctors are being silly. Then it slowly dawns on me that not only does Margaret Fletcher ride in jeans, she is poor and dirty. I suppose my little outburst is proper cause for concern. So when the doctor agrees to release me from the hospital on the condition I spend the night at a friend’s house, I accept his terms. I just wish my friend’s “house” wasn’t the living quarters of her rundown horse trailer.

  I’m feeling better. But most of my day is still a blur. Luckily, Emily is here to play back most of embarrassing moments for me.

  “You kept screaming, “Why am I wearing jeans?!!” until the Boss finally told you to shut up,” Emily says, “Then you got totally offended and punched him in the face. It wasn’t a real punch. It was more like that punch you gave me when I tried to touch your hairnet. But the Boss was totally stunned, and I think a little turned on. Then, with NO warning at all, you accused him of looking at your butt. He turned bright red. But that didn’t stop you. You just kept repeating “You have to stop looking at my butt!” over and over again. I swear you had half the people in the emergency room cracking up.”

  Emily has strict instructions to watch over me for the next 24 hours in case I wake up vomiting or something. No big deal. I could use the company, even if I really wish she would stop replaying my greatest hits. And even if she has to wake up every four hours and cold hose a horse’s leg for the Boss. One of the perks of living on the farm, I guess.

  So I’m spending the night in Emily’s traile
r. Great. Emily encourages me to think of it as practice for when she makes me sleep in a stall at The New London Classic. Wonderful.

  Emily invites Sara over to the party. Why not use up every inch of available horizontal space, right? Emily’s Crock-Pot only makes dinner for one, so we order a pizza and gather around it like a campfire. I’m not reaching for a random analogy here. Emily’s heater is broken. For the next fifteen minutes, that pizza is the only thing radiating any heat in this tin box.

  Neither Sara nor Emily seem bothered by the uncomfortable accommodations. Nope, they’re too busy reliving old concussions and riding injuries. At Emily’s urging, I show Sara my tooth. She’s impressed. But compared to their laundry lists of dislocated shoulders, broken collarbones and torn ligaments, I feel that I have little to offer.

  When Emily and Sara push for more stories, I come up empty. But Emily doesn’t believe me. “Come on, Margaret. How many horses were you riding for how many years? You’ve got to have more than just a broken tooth to show for it.” I guess riding well-schooled, even-tempered, overpriced school masters isn’t the same dangerous proposition Emily and Sara grew up with. Cue the supportive encouragement from the peanut gallery. No way, you’re a tough girl! It takes guts to sucker punch the Boss like that!

  But there is nothing disingenuous about my statement. I know how to ride. Hell, I’ve KNOWN how to ride my entire adolescent life. But it’s only recently that I’ve been expected to do so in less-than-ideal circumstances on less-than-perfect mounts. Geoff Maurice accusing Erica of being a PASSenger and not a riDER was one of the great moments in equestrian history. But everyone in this “room” knows that I’m only just starting to make the transition myself. It’s turning out to be a lot more difficult and humiliating than I would have ever expected. For the first time since Daddy lost his fortune, Margaret Fletcher has been shaken to the core.