I stand there frozen for a few beats, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. I’m attracted to the Boss and he’s attracted to me. If that kiss proved anything, it’s that. So why do I have the feeling that somehow none of this is going to work out in my favor?
Matty breaks my reverie with a loud clearing of his nostrils. I look into his soft liquid brown eyes and I can almost hear him say remember, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Bigger fish, indeed.
I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT THE BOSS as I drive onto the show grounds. My first priority is to find Emily and tell her everything that happened in totally sordid detail so she can help me decide what I should do about it all.
But I’m thrown off my purpose by the sight of Erica Lewis standing outside Chocolates’ stall with her weedy little arms crossed in front of her chest. A smile spreads across her thin lips as she says, “Margaret. You showed up again today! How incredibly plucky of you! I am so sorry to hear about your family tragedy. I honestly had no idea. Totally surprising considering that MY father runs a successful thoroughbred racing barn, I know. Wow, is it just me? Or are you also struck by how ironic this whole situation is? Maybe “ironic” isn’t the right word. Is it “coincidence”? Whatever. I just want to point out that my dad makes A LOT of money with our racehorses and your father lost ALL of his money betting on them. Now you’re forced to risk life and limb riding them for like five dollars a pop just so you can afford your rent! Hey, is it true that you slept under Bunny Beale’s trailer last night? Hmmm, maybe the right word is “KARMA”!”
I have to hand it to Erica. She’s in rare form today. But I have an ace up my sleeve. I’m smug with the memory of kissing her boyfriend. You want a fight, Erica? I’ll give you a fight. I let a greedy smile spread across my luscious, recently-kissed lips and say, “Oh, I was planning on sleeping under someone’s trailer. No money for a hotel room and all. But your boyfriend’s been keeping me up all kinds of outrageous hours this week. So I haven’t really had that much time for sleep.” Wink.
The look on Erica’s face tells me she had NO idea that her man’s been partaking in private early morning gallop sessions with my fancy ass. Perfect. I make like I’m using every available muscle to appear innocent as I say, “Well, don’t tell me you don’t know what we’ve been up to.” It’s cruel. I know. But the joy I get from watching Erica struggle to maintain her composure while I insinuate all kinds of inappropriate behavior is priceless. So I’m not going to stop. I mean, would you? I didn’t think so.
Erica is not too keen on looking like a fool in public. She makes a big show of rolling her eyes and telling me not to worry. She doesn’t keep secrets with the Boss. But I can’t help but notice that her lips are getting tighter and tighter as she insists that she knows exactly what is going on.
I should back down. Instead, I ask her to assure me that she is OK with everything that is going on and I mean “everything”. I know that I am winning this tete-a-tete the moment Erica starts jerking her head back and forth in a spastic attempt at nodding. It looks like it’s about to fall off her neck. I should probably show some mercy and put this baby to bed.
I breathe a fake sigh of relief and say, “That’s so cool. You must be really secure in your relationship. Anyway, I’m so glad we got everything out in the open. You know how it is with guys. They tell you that they’ve “cleared everything” with their girlfriend and half the time they’re lying. Anyway, I’m exhausted, as I’m sure you can imagine. So I’m going to go see if I can find a quiet place to grab some shut-eye before my class. Toodles.”
I do my best to kick up a little dirt as I make my exit. Well, look at that. Dirt sticks to Erica’s overpriced German breeches, too.
CHAPTER 22
~ Emily makes a scene ~
Despite all the drama yesterday, I’ve got a handful of trainers ready to buy Chocolates for one of their over-privileged clients. I’ve never been good at the negotiating part of selling horses. But Margaret insists I do the dirty work. She says she doesn’t want to “wheel and deal like some kind of middle management functionary”. But I know that deep down inside, Margaret is afraid that when push comes to shove, she won’t have the heart to let Chocolates go.
I’m not sure that she is fully aware of the depth of her feelings for the horse that brought her back to the A-Circuit. But I can see it in the glow on her face every time a crowd gathers to ohh and ahh at Box of Chocolates’ amazing jump. And that is exactly what everyone is doing right now. Ohhing, ahhhing and gossiping like a bunch of green-eyed, over-privileged hens.
I heard Margaret Fletcher gallops thoroughbreds to pay off her dad’s gambling debts.
Margaret Fletcher galloping thoroughbreds? Please, that girl can’t ride anything that doesn’t run on autopilot.
That has to be one nice horse to cart her butt around the pre-greens like that. Who knew that racehorses are so easy to ride!
How hilarious is it that her Daddy is nothing but a lowlife deadbeat gambler!
I used to assume Margaret could never make friends on the A-Circuit because she was such a pain in the ass. But I’m not even sure these girls are human, let alone friendship material. I know I should mind my own business and walk away. But I can’t help but stick my nose into these very smelly waters.
So I elbow my way into the center of the witches den, look the tallest, prettiest one right in the eye and say, “Excuse me, I just have to say that I totally understand your need to belittle Margaret Fletcher. It used to drive me nuts to watch her ride the pants off EVERYTHING she sits on. How can someone who appears to care more about the brand of breeches she’s wearing than the act of actually riding be SO MUCH BETTER THAN ME. My life was much easier when I believed that girls like Margaret Fletcher only won because they have money. But that’s not the case here. She’s a better rider than me. So I can guarantee you that she’s a better rider than any of you.”
That’s the second time I’ve said those words out loud. Margaret Fletcher is a better rider than me. But it’s the first time they haven’t made my stomach turn. Because Margaret Fletcher, the girl who puts more thought into adjusting her hairnet than what she’s doing in the saddle, IS a better rider than me. Sure, my riding career would have benefitted if I had more money and opportunity to throw at horses. But money alone may not have been enough to put me among the best. And yes, I am terrified to go to England and learn the limits of my own talent. Because even with the best trainer, I still might not be as good as Margaret Fletcher. But you know what? I’m going to do it anyway. Because if I don’t, I won’t be any different than these horrible girls sitting on the sidelines squawking about all the things they could be if only they had what girls like Margaret Fletcher have.
I take a moment to be super proud of myself for all these grownup revelations. The moment passes, and I’m pretty sure a good five minutes have gone by. So why is this large crowd of people still staring at me? A matronly woman dressed in a perfectly-pressed pair of breeches and impossibly shiny custom field boots breaks the silence with, “Are you saying that horse is not a packer?”
And then I realize what’s going on here. I just loudly told every trainer in earshot that their clients have no hope of doing as well on Chocolates as Margaret. And nobody wants to be the person responsible for training a horse when all that five-figure potential fizzles under their inferior rider.
A good saleswoman would immediately start backpedaling. I should undersell Margaret’s riding ability and insist that any idiot can pilot that beast in style. But I can’t bring myself to give Margaret’s haters the satisfaction. So I tell everyone in earshot that Chocolates might be a packer one day. Maybe. But right now he’s a five year old off-the-track thoroughbred. Three months ago, his skills included galloping in a straight line and stopping. So no, he’s not a packer, even if Margaret makes him look like one.
My little speech is met with predictable silence. But if you listen really close, you can hear the sound of a nail being driven into the co
ffin of my hope to sell this horse in time to pay for that trip to England as all those trainers with rich clients slowly back away.
Instinctively sensing that her “fan club” is no longer watching her ride, Margaret stops jumping and trots on over. If I tell her what I just did, she is sure to be furious and accuse me of self-sabotage again. Even though I’m pretty sure that is NOT what I was doing, the evidence suggests otherwise. So I tell Margaret that word got out about a big Hermes belt sale and everyone went running. But Margaret’s not buying one second of my story. Apparently Hermes belts never go on sale. Not even in the worst of economic times. I’m about to make a big show of acting all offended by Margaret’s suggestion that I’m lying. I’m sure if I yell, scream and cry enough, I can confuse her into changing the topic of conversation.
But then Erica Lewis trots up to my rescue. She’s got a look on her face that could kill a basket of puppies. “Fletcher, do you have a bill of sale for that horse of yours?”
Margaret’s mouth is wide open, but no words are coming out. Oh, I am definitely off the hook here.
On Margaret’s silence, Erica screams louder, “FLETCHER! Do you have a bill of sale proving that you actually bought that horse of yours?”
Margaret looks at me like she’s expecting me to bail her out. That’s not going to happen. I’m guessing that not only does Margaret NOT have a bill of sale, she has no idea what such a document is for. I suppose it’s a good thing I chose Margaret’s honor over Chocolates’ marketability. Because without a bill of sale we don’t legally own a horse to market.
Margaret stammers something about none of this being any of Erica’s business. She bought Chocolates from the Boss for one dollar, paid in full.
A chill runs down my spine as Erica treats us to her evil grin and says, “It’s my business because my EX-boyfriend had no right to sell you that horse. Per his contract with my father, he is not allowed to sell ANY horse of his without offering it to Daddy first. I just got off the phone with Daddy and he doesn’t remember hearing anything about this Box of Chocolates. Honestly, I’m not sure a bill of sale would even be of help in this situation, since legally the slimeball had NO right to sell you that horse in the first place.”
Wow, I’m not going to England and it’s totally not my fault. I am immediately overwhelmed by a sense of relief. Not the right feeling, I know. But I’ll deal with my confused psyche later. Right now, the look on Margaret’s face says that she knows she screwed up. Big time. I’m not sure what she did to invite Erica’s persistent wrath. I don’t really care. I know I should be upset about all the time and money I’ve invested in this horse for nothing. But I don’t see the benefit of making poor Margaret suffer the humiliation of this exchange any longer.
So I step in and tell Erica that regardless of whether we have a bill of sale or not, Chocolates isn’t her horse. As far as we’re concerned, Margaret purchased Chocolates from the Boss fair and square. Any beef Erica has is with him.
Erica trots away, cackling like a nefarious Disney cartoon character, promising to have the last word. Moments later, I start receiving texts from trainers canceling appointment to show Chocolates to their clients. I know the real reason for these cancellations has nothing to do with the dispute in ownership. But the morally complicated, self-sabotaging, chicken-hearted side of me lets Margaret think otherwise. I do my best to don a stern expression and sound disappointed as I insist that Margaret needs to call the Boss to straighten this situation out. She tells me not to worry. Chocolates is our horse. Erica is just being a brat because she can’t stand to see Margaret in the spotlight again.
When Margaret says, “I’ll fix this, I promise,” I believe her. Because I’ve learned when Margaret Fletcher sets her mind to do something, she gets it done. So I’m probably going to England, whether I like it or not.
CHAPTER 23
~ Margaret meets her father for the first time ~
Erica Lewis is NOT getting away with highway robbery! I’ve left the Boss several messages insisting he set his woman straight immediately. No response. He’s ignoring me. I’m guessing he’s embarrassed to be associated with such a horrible, soulless wretch. Or more likely, he’s still confused by our successfully steamy interlude the other day and doesn’t know what to say. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’m going to Winning Edge to confront this problem head on.
I show up at the farm perfectly on time and ready to gallop Matty. But I’m greeted with a hearty, “Go home, Princess” from the Boss. I believe I’M the injured party here. So why is HE acting all upset? “INJURED PARTY?” he bellows at the top of his lungs like an angry lumberjack with a dull axe. “Erica broke up with me, thanks to you!”
Wait. What did he just say? I knew Erica and the Boss are no longer a couple (never before has the word EX-boyfriend sound so sweet as it did coming out of Erica Lewis’s mouth.) But she broke up with him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? And then there is the whole matter of the Boss still yelling and screaming things like, “It was a mistake, Margaret. I said I was sorry. So why did you have to tell her?” Mistake? Margaret?! And more importantly, what the hell does he think I told her? On my confused expression, he lowers his voice several octaves and says, “You told her about the kiss… right?”
“Of course I didn’t,” I say with complete and utter honesty. I DID insinuate that we are having mysteriously torrid affair in the wee galloping hours of the morning. But I decide to keep that part to myself. I feel bad about my role in this whole situation. But as far as I’m concerned, the Boss is still responsible for Erica’s behavior. With the look of a technically innocent person on my face, I tell him about the bill of sale that I don’t have and Erica’s claim that he didn’t legally have the right to sell me Chocolates in the first place. The Boss looks like he’s still pretty annoyed with me. So I remind him that Emily is the real victim here. Selling Chocolates is the only way she is going to scrape together the funds to get to England anytime soon. And she is the only person in this whole situation who hasn’t behaved poorly.
The Boss is compelled by my argument on Emily’s behalf. I’m waiting for him to apologize for yelling at ME when he didn’t need to, but he’s not budging. I consider reminding him that I only IMPLIED to Erica we were having a torrid affair in the early morning hours. He’s the one that SPILLED the actual beans about that harmless little (or was it?) kiss. But I take the higher ground and don’t mention that this is pretty much all his fault. Poor Boss. He’s got the weight of the world on those handsome, defined shoulders, doesn’t he? Between managing a vengeful ex-girlfriend and pinning his entire career on a horse he can’t gallop without the help of a love interest he’s too afraid to pursue, you’ve got to feel sorry for the guy.
“Look, Princess, I don’t know what the solution to your problem is yet. But I promise to find one.” Then, he sheepishly asks me if I’ll gallop Matty for him after all. I could use the time alone to clear my head, so I say yes and let him give me a totally asexual leg up.
As Matty and I make our way out to the track alone, my thoughts wander to the morning of that kiss. I’m having a hard time believing that it didn’t mean anything to the Boss. Now that Erica has been elbowed out of the picture, I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t/shouldn’t move our intimate little negotiation up to the privacy of the hayloft. But the Boss said pretty much everything he needed to when he grabbed my calf like some old boarding school buddy and hoisted me up on Matty without so much as a pat on my ass.
That kiss was a one-time deal. It’s back to business as usual.
All right, Matty, let’s get this show on the road. I slowly raise my body up out of the stirrups and Matty responds by rocketing forward with enough power to light up New York City. I’m having a really hard time holding him without Rosa around to serve as a distraction. I do my best to keep Matty from working too hard, but today my best just isn’t going to be enough.
By the time I manage to pull up, the Boss is bright red and yelling at the
top of his lungs all over again. The man really needs to find a tension tamer. Maybe Daddy can give him some free yoga lessons. Soothe his aura until he’s behaving like a reasonable person again.
“Princess,” the Boss bellows, “If you keep working that horse too hard, I’m not going to have anything left to win the race with!” The ranting and raving continues for a good ten minutes before he finally gives up and says, “Why am I bothering to yell at you? You couldn’t possibly understand everything I have riding on this horse.”
I’m pretty sure that was some kind of poor little rich girl dig. The old Margaret would have taken it without saying a thing. But that’s because THE OLD MARGARET WAS RICH! “Excuse me,” I politely remind him, “But I’m pretty sure that you don’t have any right to be upset with me when I just lost an amazing opportunity to turn a nice profit on a HORSE THAT YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO SELL ME!”
The Boss is startled by my outburst. But I am not the slightest bit deterred. “Sorry, Boss, but I am not like the Erica Lewises of the world anymore. I am just as poor and in over my head as everyone that has no business playing around with horses.” Then I look him in those beautiful blue eyes of his and say, “If you don’t think I’m good enough to gallop Matty, fire me. But don’t give some crock of shit about not understanding what it’s like to be under pressure.”
The Boss returns my gaze with the kind of respect and admiration his type usually reserves for real horsemen. All my anger melts away and I feel that we are on the verge of sharing another moment. Maybe another kiss? “Listen, Princess, I screwed up with Chocolates. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think Mr. Lewis would have any interest in buying a proven loser.”
It’s always a mistake to underestimate Erica Lewis’s desire to kick Margaret Fletcher when she’s down. The Boss rolls his eyes and tries to pretend that his evil ex is not that bad. But we both know I’m right. There’s no reasoning with that woman. And as long as she has the legal upper hand, we’re screwed.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 18