Margaret is horrified by the impression that we’re making. She seems to have spontaneously broken out in some kind of horrible rash. I swear this woman keeps finding new ways to overreact and I just don’t have time for this nonsense. I instruct Princess that she needs to get into the warm-up arena as soon as she can. She nods in queasy agreement and immediately disappears. I deposit Chocolates in his stall, lay down bedding and fill his water bucket. I’m too busy throwing down bales of hay from the roof of my trailer to notice that Margaret isn’t lifting a finger to groom Chocolates. Twenty minutes later, I’ve got Chocolates pretty well situated in his new home. But the only thing Margaret has accomplished is dressing herself up in some overpriced, highly-elasticized show outfit that is going to get really dirty really soon.
“Emily, why is Chocolates such a mess? You said you were going to take care of him. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”
I don’t have time to explain to Margaret that horses need things like water and hay to survive. I shove a bucket filled with a sponge and a bottle of shampoo in her hands and tell her to get to work. Before she has a chance to open her mouth in protest, I give her a look that says “Shut it, Princess.” Stunned, she ambles towards the wash racks about to give what I am sure is the first horsey bath of her life.
Fifteen minutes later, Margaret Fletcher returns with Chocolates. He’s clean from head to toe. Margaret, on the other hand, looks like something the cat dragged in. She is still dressed in that ridiculous show outfit of hers. Only now it’s covered in dirt and soapsuds. When I suggest she take the jacket off and run a lint brush over it, she bursts into tears and tells me that she can’t. Apparently, the whole get-up is made of super-powered German elastic. It’s got her in a vice grip and she’s worried that if she tries to remove it, she might dislocate a shoulder.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve got Chocolates looking presentable. But Margaret is still a lost cause. I encourage her to focus on the positive. She’s mere moments away from returning to the one place where she always felt she belonged. “Soon you’ll be jumping eight perfect fences in front of a real judge. You’re at The New London Classic! And everyone who matters is here to watch you perform.”
I thought my little speech would get Margaret excited for what’s ahead. Referring to the lunatics strolling around these show grounds as “everyone who matters” didn’t exactly come naturally. But she just turns bright green and runs towards the nearest porta potty. I don’t know why I even try to understand that woman.
From there, the afternoon only gets weirder. Margaret returns with a skinny little drunk woman dressed like some kind of slutty sailor by her side. I hear her squeal, “Margaret! Honieeee! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?!!!” She retrieves a small aerosol can from her purse and immediately starts spraying a fine mist in Margaret’s direction. “It’s ionized spring water from France. It will soothe your pores. Quick, let’s get you to the V.I.P. tent. I want to make sure everyone important sees you looking useless before your class so they think we have a full staff doing all the dirty work for you.”
I am in the presence of the infamous Mrs. Fletcher.
Margaret doesn’t like to talk about her family. All I know is her father is having some kind of yoga-inspired nervous breakdown and her mother has a minor drinking/shopping/being obnoxious problem.
“Mother, I’m already covered in all the dirty work! We’re not going to fool anyone!” Margaret spits out.
Mrs. Fletcher ignores Margaret and screams to no one in particular, “Bunny! Is that you, Bunny? Bunny! I’ll see you in the V.I.P. tent. I just have to straighten some things out with Margaret’s grooms first. It’s so nice to find one that speaks English. Of course you have to pay extra for that!”
Wow. Next to her mother, Margaret Fletcher actually looks like a sane, reasonable person. I can’t hear what Margaret is saying to her mother. But neither Fletcher appears to be very happy. Fletcher Senior eventually throws her chicken arms up in frustration and runs off in the direction of the air conditioned massage tables.
Margaret’s face is now covered in dirt, soap, tiny welts and pure frustration. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so disheveled. I find myself experiencing genuine feelings of sympathy for the Princess.
So I just smile, pick up the cleanest rag I can find and say, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
CHAPTER 21
~ Margaret finds herself caught in a sticky situation ~
I’m still a little shell-shocked from the last horrifying hour of my life. I don’t feel like someone who is about to amaze a crowd with my triumphant return to the Hunter ring. I feel like someone who just finished a morning of hard labor dressed in a sweaty tuxedo jacket that is trying to kill her. I can’t present myself in front of a judge like this! I want to go back to Winning Edge Farms and gallop Matty. Because that would be A LOT less terrifying than what everybody is expecting me to do right now.
Emily doesn’t look like she is prepared to listen to reason. So I let her molest me with a dirty rag meant for cleaning the slobber out of Chocolates’ nostrils. I know she is trying to be helpful. However, the only thing she accomplishes is grinding more dirt and soapsuds deeper into the elastic of my jacket. I’m guessing there is a fifty/fifty chance that the judge will dismiss me the moment I walk into his arena dressed like a dirty little trailer hobbit. But I mount Chocolates anyway. As I swing my leg over his back, my tooth necklace rubs against my chest. I am reminded of the McClay Finals and that blood-splattered jacket. Looking like a murder victim didn’t stop me from laying down the trip of a lifetime. So why should today be any different? All right, Chocolates. Like the girl said: let’s do this thing!
I do my best to hold my head high as Chocolates and I make our way to the warm-up arena. Perfectly-presented Hunter Princesses look on in horror as the disheveled Margaret Fletcher passes by. I can hear whispers of “Is that who I think it is?” mixed in with cheap shots aimed at my outdated tack. I should be coming unglued right about now. But I’m not. Chocolates doesn’t understand any of the snide comments aimed in his direction. All he knows is that everyone is looking at him. I can feel the pride welling up inside him as he marches through the crowd of adoring fans, his head held high and the sway of his tail emphasizing the swagger in his step. How could I feel like anything but a Princess sitting atop such a wonderful animal?
The warm-up arena is crowded with Hunter Princesses on horses cantering, trotting and jumping in all different directions. Chocolates takes one look at the commotion and immediately dissolves into a puddle of anxiety. We make tentative steps towards the chaos. I scratch Chocolates on his withers, letting him know that everything is OK. Eventually, I work up the nerve to ask for a trot. Chocolates is tense, unfocused and moving way too fast. I am terrified to ask for a canter. I see Emily ringside, watching us with that look of horrifying uncertainty she wears so often. She doesn’t think we can do this and neither does the trembling mound of horseflesh quaking beneath me.
Well, somebody is going to have to believe in us, starting right now. And if it’s not going to be Emily and it’s not going to be Chocolates, then it has to be me. I take a deep breath and pick up the canter. It’s way too fast and almost out of control. Every Hunter Princess around me stops riding to watch the trainwreck unfolding before their eyes, terrified to share the arena with such a wild pair. Perfect, that means I’ve got all the jumps to myself.
Mere seconds before I am about to take my first fence, a familiar high-pitched whine shatters my concentration. Mother is standing at the far end of the arena, polishing off her second or third cocktail and squealing at the top of her lungs, “Margaret! What horse are you riding? You know I can never keep track. YOU HAVE SO MANY!” Mother isn’t actually talking to me. She’s just making loud proclamations in the hopes that someone will overhear her and think that we’re rich again.
I’ve still got ten minutes to survive before it’s my turn to go. I do everything in my power to ex
pel the sound of Mother from my universe and focus on the task of getting warmed up. Once again, I pick up the canter and the Hunter Princesses scatter to safer shores. I aim Chocolates at a small cross rail and he leaps over it like it might eat him alive. I can feel him unraveling under the pressure. So I forget about the jumping and do a couple of walk/trot transitions to settle him down. It’s working. I’ve finally got Chocolates moving like a good hunter. Until a gentle breeze claims the absurd sailor hat perched atop my mother’s head and sends it flying in our direction.
At the sight of Mother’s hat coming towards him, Chocolates leaps in the air, bucking and farting all at the same time. Any hope I had of a quiet, calm hunter round is gone. I try to do more of those magical, horse-calming walk/trot transitions. But this time, they’re not working. Then I realize that Mother has reclaimed her hat and is in the middle of the now nearly-empty arena, vigorously shaking it in an obnoxious attempt to make it clean. Chocolates is horrified by the spectacle. He stands completely still, frozen in fear of the offending object and the crazy woman threatening to kill him with it.
Emily screams across the arena, “Margaret, you have to go in now! I can’t make them hold the gate any longer!” But I’ve only jumped one warm-up fence and it was a disaster. And my horse refuses to move. My mother, too self-absorbed to notice the trouble she is causing, continues to wave that hat around like it’s the only thing that matters.
I beg Mother to stop her destructive behavior. But she doesn’t hear me. Her pretty little hat is dirty, the rest of the world be damned. Sam always says that you can’t make cookies without breaking some eggs. Well, Chocolates, it’s time to mess up the kitchen.
I bridge my reins and smack Chocolates on the flank with my crop as hard as I can. I gallop into the show arena like no Hunter Princess before me ever has. I’m sure everyone watching us is bracing herself for a disastrous performance.
Instead, magic happens. The kind of thrilling, improbable movie magic that seemed impossible mere minutes before.
Chocolates takes one look at the carefully-decorated jumps, the judge’s stand and the unusually large audience that has gathered to watched him perform, and breathes a sigh of relief. As the tension leaves his body, I can also feel it also melt away from mine. I pick up a nice quiet hunter canter and point Chocolates towards the first jump, not sure what to expect. I hear the crowd gasp as Chocolates jumps the snot out of that fence and lands in the perfect hunter lope.
I have ridden plenty of hunter rounds in my lifetime. But it has NEVER felt this good. Each jump is more brilliant than the next, and I can feel Chocolates becoming more comfortable with himself as the course goes on. Tears of joy and relief stream down my cheeks as we walk out of the arena. All that hard work and humiliation was worth every miserable second. I have no idea if the judge will look past my homeless equestrian appearance and give us a ribbon. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter. I have never been prouder of a horse or the eight fences that we jumped together than I am right now.
Everyone around the arena watches in stunned silence as Chocolates and I strut out. Everyone except for my mother. No, she is still trying to clean that ridiculous hat of hers using whatever is left of her fourth or fifth gin and tonic. I walk right past her, prepared to just ignore the whole situation. But something makes Mother look up and really see me for the first time since she set foot on the show grounds. I try to contain my anger as I hear her say, “Honey, why do you look so sweaty and dirty? You’re at a horse show. You should know better.”
I just put in the performance of a lifetime on a horse that cost several thousand dollars less than this absurd outfit that I am wearing. I did it in front of a crowd of over-privileged, spoiled brats who were rooting for me to fail spectacularly. And all this woman has to say to me is “You should know better?” I want to rip Mother’s unmoving, Botoxed face off. Then I remember the people watching me right now don’t need another reason to think I’ve gone off the deep end.
Instead, I calmly ask Mother why she is even here. She gives me a confused look and says, “Oh, honey, I’m here to support you no matter how poorly you do.”
“POORLY,” I involuntarily scream at the top of my lungs. The crowd gasps in unison. Margaret Fletcher has gone off the deep end and now everyone within earshot knows.
“Honey, I was a little distracted while you were riding and I didn’t actually get to watch. I may not know a whole lot about the horses that you’re so obsessed with. But no judge is going to give any kind of award to someone so disheveled!”
Screw it. Margaret Fletcher is going to cause a scene and she doesn’t care who is gathered around to watch. Let’s give the crowd a show. I hop off Chocolates, hand the reins to Emily and say, “Well, it’s too bad. If you were here to actually support me instead of just fluffing up your social connections, you would have seen me kick ass.”
The crowd, not even pretending not to listen to the once-proud Margaret Fletcher scream at her mother, instantly doubles in size. This little sideshow just became the main event. Now it’s Mother’s turn to be horrified. She has the nerve to say, “It’s a good thing your father isn’t here to witness this temper tantrum!”
“Now that’s rich. Bring up Daddy,” I say, “Would this be the same father I’m not allowed to share my life with, thanks to you, Mother?”
A shadow casts over my mother’s face as she suddenly goes quiet. She seems to want to give up the fight as quickly as she started it. The drama is over and the crowd starts to dissipate. Then, as if sensing she’s about to lose her audience and whatever last bit of relevance she had in this A-Circuit crowd, Mother screams, “YOUR FATHER IS NOT HERE BECAUSE HE LOST EVERY PENNY WE HAD BETTING ON HORSES! SO I WON’T ALLOW HIM NEAR THEM!”
A collective gasp from the audience encourages her to continue, “That’s right. Daddy has a gambling problem. That’s why I hate this whole Gallop Girl thing and that’s why I would never allow your father to come to your horse shows. I’m sorry, Margaret. I truly am. I hope one day you can understand why I didn’t want to expose my precious little princess to the seedy underbelly of our family.”
The crowd stands in silence, mouths agape in frozen expressions of shock that only a freak rainstorm of carbohydrates could close. Mother bursts into tears and storms off. A gust of wind blows that ridiculous hat off her head once again. This time, she leaves it behind. It sits in the arena dirt for a few seconds before getting trampled flat by the next rider.
Day One at The New London Classic is complete and true to form, Margaret Fletcher made a splash.
FIGHTING WITH MOTHER is something of a horse show tradition. Over the years, we’ve had some real doozies. But yesterday was unusually spectacular and I’m still exhausted from it all.
I arrive at Winning Edge Farms at the prescribed three o’clock hour to find Matty waiting for me in the crossties. He looks so innocent. Harmless even. It’s hard to believe his kind are responsible for bankrupting my father. I suppose I am being unfair. Matty never met my father. But it’s horses like you, Matty, the strong, beautiful, powerful ones, that seduce us into making the kind of decisions that change our lives forever.
The Boss finds me stroking Matty’s mane, rubbing tears from my eyes. I have no official confirmation that he heard about everything that happened yesterday. But knowing Erica, he has.
Without acknowledging my tears, he looks at me and says, “Princess, I lost my shirt buying Chocolates. I thought I was the one trainer who could unlock his potential. But it turns out that trainer is you. I heard you guys brought the house down yesterday. Congratulations.”
The Boss then strokes Matty’s mane and says, “I only took this guy on because I couldn’t afford anything else after Chocolates cleaned my clock. I never expected he’d amount to much of anything. But when I watch you gallop him, I start to believe I have something here. He might even be good enough to take me all the way to the Kentucky Derby. If I was smarter, I would probably sell him right now and make a nice profit.
But I think I’m going leave my chips on the table and see how far he can take me. And if that makes me a gambler, so be it.”
I’m not exactly sure what just happened. But it feels like the Boss exposed himself to me in a pretty intense way. I meet his smoldering gaze with an equally provocative look, daring him to flinch. Instead, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear and says, “What are you doing showing up at my barn without your hairnet, Princess?”
I need a moment to gather my thoughts. This feels a lot more serious than casual flirting and I’m not sure that I’m ready to become part of a love triangle that involves Erica Lewis. But the Boss isn’t looking away, and I’m not either. I smile softly, cocking my head to one side like a girl that wants to be kissed and say, “Sometimes even an uptight princess like me has to throw caution to the wind and take a gamble.”
The Boss pushes his fingers deeper into my unsecured locks, gently cradling the back of my head with his big, strong Johnny Racetrack hands and says, “I guess gambling is in our blood. Probably not much we can do about it now.” I part my lips and breathe a sigh of agreement, the sensation of the Boss’s breath on mine is making it impossible to think or speak clearly. And then, it happens. He leans in for the kiss I’ve been hoping for since the first day I saw those beautiful baby blue eyes crinkle.
It’s a long, slow, completely thorough kiss. The kind that fills a girl’s brain with wonderfully disorienting natural chemicals leaving her too incapacitated to fully appreciate the consequences of her actions.
But just as I am about to slide my hand down the small of the Boss’s back and onto firmer ground, he pulls away. His face wears a look of regret and I can feel the perfection of this moment slipping out of my grasp. “Sorry, Princess,” he says before scurrying away.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 17