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

by Genevieve Dutil

  Sensing my discomfort, Margaret asks if I’m up for a drink. I nod my head and we call Sara.

  I get the feeling I’m going to need a stiff one tonight.

  CHAPTER 25

  ~ Margaret trades in her crown ~

  Emily and Sara make it clear that I get ONE drink tonight. If I start slurring my words, it gets taken away from me. I order a Grand Marnier and make a toast to Mother. Here’s to you! You may be a total lunatic, but at least you never led a secret double life that ended with the demise of our family fortune. Bottoms up!

  Everyone takes a sip of their drink. But no one knows what to say.

  Not one to enjoy getting woozy off the toxic fumes of a pity party, I break the silence, “It’s fine, ladies. Everything is fine. Sure, it’s kind of a bummer that just when I started to appreciate my father’s yoga, hemp, Zen Daddy persona, I learn that he’s actually a lowlife gambling narcissist with zero self-control.” I down another gulp of Grand Marnier and continue, “I guess my father is not as strong of a person as I always imagined. Is it sad that I had to imagine WHO my dad is and I got it wrong?”

  Nobody answers my question. They simply look at me with the concerned expressions usually reserved for someone about to go over the edge.

  I polish off my glass and order another. Anyone feel like trying to stop me? “You know what, girls? Men suck. Across the board. Doesn’t matter if he’s your absentee father or your tease of a boss. I finally reached a point in my life where I was starting to feel like I had some clarity. I’ve got a job I like. I’m riding horses again. And I’m FINALLY coming to terms with the limits of my wardrobe. But now, without warning, everything is suddenly back in the crapper.”

  Yes, girls. Margaret Fletcher just used the word “crapper”. I down my second Grand Marnier like it’s a cup of refreshing marathon water and signal for another before Emily can stop me. “I have a confession to make. I made out with the Boss. Erica found out and that’s why she’s being such an ass. Emily, I screwed up your plans and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.”

  Emily should be ripping my head off right about now. Instead, she slyly signals the bartender to speed up the arrival of my next Grand Marnier, hoping the extra lubrication will coax me into dishing like a tipsy teenager at a slumber party.

  Something that sounds vaguely like, “I ammmthhh not an adultererthhhh” stumbles out of my mouth. Two and a half drinks, and I’m already slurring my words. How can Mother possibly stand up after one of her “lunches?”

  Sensing that I am rapidly losing my ability to participate in the conversation, Sara jumps in with a story about her own experience sleeping with a boss. The room is spinning and I’m having trouble focusing. But I’m able to digest the main thesis of her argument, which is that having an affair with one’s boss is a BAD idea. At least if one has any desire to keep one’s job.

  Sara points out that I can probably ditch the whole scruffy Gallop Girl lifestyle anyway. I’m about to make big money selling Chocolates. I’ve got all the skills and connections to repeat the process as many times as I see fit. There’s a whole living to be made buying failed racehorses and turning them around for profit.

  I should be all over this, right? So why is my first instinct to resist? “I’m not selling Chocolatesthh. I screwed that up. Remember? Emilyth, you should be really pished. Why aren’t you pished?”

  I may be drunk. But I recognize the panicked look on Emily’s face. We all know that she would rather stay home and blame her problems on ME than pack her bags and find out what SHE’S made of.

  But instead of acknowledging her guilty conscience, Emily accuses me of berating her for being too understanding. “Margaret, listen to yourself. Twenty minutes ago, you were saying that I’m not a good friend. Now you’re giving me a hard time because I’m not angry enough with you over one little screw up. Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”

  Sara reminds Emily that one little screw up might just cost her an opportunity of a lifetime. “Just last week I had to listen to you complain about Margaret for forty five minutes —”

  Wait. What?

  “—because she refused to load hay nets on account of not wanting to risk getting orchard grass caught in her hairnet. You threatened to refuse to speak to her until she was ready to put Chocolates’ nutritional needs above her own neurotic grooming habits. I’m pretty sure destroying your chances of going to England because of some silly crush is a much bigger offense.”

  I’ll admit that my perception of the situation is clouded by one, two, three too many cocktails. But it appears that Emily’s lower lip is trembling and, yep, I’m pretty sure I see pools of liquid forming in the corner of her eyes. Without further warning, she bursts into tears. “I’ve always thought of myself as such a brave person. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so afraid?!”

  Seeing Emily bare her soul for everyone in Shorty’s to see is like a shot of adrenaline to my Grand Marnier-addled brain. I regain the lucidity I’d lost with too much old lady liqueur and tell Emily, “It’s OK. You can be brave and terrified at the same time. That’s what bravery is: being scared of something, but doing it anyway. It’s hard, I know. But some of the most exhilarating moments of my life happened only moments after I was almost paralyzed by fear. It didn’t matter that I was scared as long as I kept on moving.”

  The tears dry up and Emily looks at me as if she is truly seeing me for the first time. “Thank you, Margaret.”

  “You’re welcome,” I kindly say. I feel a warm glow spreading in my chest and I’m pretty sure it’s not the Grand Marnier. My sea legs are slowly coming back and I’m ready to enjoy the rest of the evening with my girls.

  But then, out of the blue, Emily slams her beer on the table and starts acting like she’s all irritated with me again. “Margaret, how could you screw up my lifelong DREAM for a boy?”

  I want to point out that sixty seconds ago, Emily’s lifelong dream was to find a suitable excuse to stay home and blame her problems on everyone else. But as a friend, I am here to support her moment of personal growth, so I take the beating. “What were you thinking, anyway? HE’S YOUR BOSS, MARGARET! Is having an affair with somebody else’s boyfriend really worth throwing you job away for?”

  Emily is making the situation sound pretty trashy. I inform her that HE kissed me. And yes, he WAS a taken man. But Erica has been taking things away from me for years and it was MY turn to have a little fun at her expense. OK. That didn’t sound as classy as I thought it would. Emily gives me one of those disapproving looks that she usually reserves for when I’ve inadvertently made an inappropriate comment about someone’s plastic helmet or brightly-colored rubber reins.

  I am suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to clear my good name. I concede that kissing the Boss was a huge mistake. Not only did I put a chink in the armor of my own integrity, I jeopardized the partnership that I care for very much. Once again, I promise Emily that I will make things right. Chocolates will be ours to sell and I’m putting Emily on a plane to England if it’s the last thing I do!

  Just when I think Emily and I are turning a positive corner in this conversation, she reminds me that she thinks my plan is stupid. I’m still too flustered from allowing myself to sound like a floozy to argue effectively. Deep in my heart, I know she’s wrong. My plan is going to work and we are going to sell Chocolates for more money than Little Orphan Emily has ever seen in her entire life. And I’m going to embark on a new career, selling Hunters for big profit. Screw this scruffy Gallop Girl life. Margaret Fletcher is back and the Hunter Princesses of the world better watch out!

  I’m feeling pretty good about the whole situation when I am suddenly struck with a queasy sensation and it’s not the Grand Marnier. Just when I feel like I am about to throw up, I scream, “I LOVE BEING A GALLOP GIRL! AND I WON’T LET ANYONE TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.”

  Sara and Emily are confused by my outburst. But for me, nothing has ever been more obvious. I am a Gallop Girl. Not because I have to be, but b
ecause it is who I am. I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include waking up before dawn to gallop hard and fast until every muscle in my body is sore with satisfaction. Having an affair with the Boss would have been the most stupid thing I could have possibly done. Sure, I’m attracted to him. But I love this life. And I’m not willing give that up so I can be some guy’s girlfriend.

  I could return to the Hunter world fulltime. I still love the challenge of trying to nail eight perfect fences. But now that I know the thrill of running fast, free, and completely oblivious to the condition of my quaff, I don’t think I could ever go back. Even if it means that I never get to ride in a proper pair of breeches again.

  DESPITE EMILY’S NEGATIVITY, I have full confidence in my plan to get Chocolates back. Time to execute.

  Word on the street is Erica Lewis gets fitted for a new pair of custom boots every Tuesday to accommodate any micro changes in her weight. So I spend most of my Tuesday morning at Mary’s trying on every pair of breeches she has in stock. Eventually, Erica walks in the front door, announcing her arrival by loudly proclaiming to no one in particular, “You know what they say: everyone needs at least three pairs of custom boots. A pair of Italian boots, a pair of German boots and a pair of American boots to help remind one just how lucky one is to be able to afford the Italian and German boots. MARY! GET THE MEASURING TA…”

  Erica pauses in her tracks when she sees me standing in the middle of the store, dressed in a pair of fancy German breeches with aromatic massage oils woven into the fabric around the buttocks and thighs. She looks me up and down with a smirk on her face. I can’t tell if her joy is from the knowledge that I can’t afford the breeches, or the fact that the massage oils meant to soothe sore muscles have instead formed a sticky film around my most intimate of areas. She chuckles to herself, puts on a fake smile and says, “Hey, Margaret, that’s your old saying. Too bad that doesn’t apply to you anymore. You probably only have ONE pair of AMERICAN boots now! And I bet they’re OFF THE RACK!”

  I have no idea what Erica is talking about. I would NEVER say something so ridiculous. But then she reminds me that junior year at Nationals the zippers broke on my good old Konigs. My Tuccis were already in the shop, so I had no choice but to wear my Vogals. Bunny mentioned that she thought they looked a little coarse and I said, “Everyone needs at least three pairs of custom boots” and all the obnoxious crap that came after that.

  I am completely disgusted with myself. That doesn’t stop Erica from driving the knife in deeper, “It must be difficult to be reminded of the good old days, huh? I bet you blocked all those memories out, like some kind of trauma victim. Poor thing, you probably don’t remember much about what it’s like to be a part of top sport. You don’t even have that crappy excuse of a hunter anymore. Sorry about that. WAIT, NO, I’M NOT!”

  Oh, you can wipe that smug look off your face, Erica. I’ve got you right where I want you and you’re too self-involved to even realize it. I lean in and say, “I wouldn’t say that’s one hundred percent true, Erica. I’ve been galloping a horse that is sure to be the next Kentucky Derby winner. I would say that’s top sport. Wouldn’t you?”

  Erica lights up with predictable glee and starts blabbing about how she OWNS me now. One call to her father and I’ll never sit on that horse again!

  She thinks she’s got me sweating in my splotchy breeches. Well, I’ve got news for you, Lewis. That’s not sweat. That’s German engineering!

  I take a moment to savor the revenge before flashing my own evil grin in return, “Erica, your daddy doesn’t own this horse. Your EX-BOYFRIEND does. And I’m pretty sure, he’s happy to let me gallop that baby as LLLLOOOONG as I want.”

  I know I vowed to never again engage in sexual innuendo. It’s not very classy. But watching Erica’s face scrunch up into a little prune of rage is worth temporarily debasing myself. I wait for one of her patented Erica Lewis cackling comebacks. But nothing is coming. In fact, Erica is pulsing so hard with anger, Mary can’t get a reliable measurement on her right calf.

  I’m pretty sure my job here is done. I disappear into the dressing room to change out of these atrocious breeches and wait three, two, one…

  On cue, the entire tack shop shakes with the eruption of Erica’s temper, “Margaret Fletcher, you THINK you have the upper hand here. But I have the UPPER HAND. I’ve always had THE UPPER HAND!”

  Three hours later, word of Mr. Lewis’s obscene offer to buy Matty is spreading around Winning Edge.

  Oh, Erica, you are so predictable that manipulating you is hardly any fun anymore. To be honest, it was almost boring.

  CHAPTER 26

  ~ Emily Meets her Spirit Guide ~

  Margaret is proud of herself for playing Erica like a cheap violin. I’m impressed, but I don’t let on. The last thing that girl needs is a bigger head. She already sent the Boss a sternly-worded email demanding that he promise to ONLY sell Matty on the condition that Chocolates is part of the deal.

  We both know that Margaret and her feminine charms are better equipped to convince the Boss of anything right now. But she insists that her days of using sex as a weapon are over. So it’s up to me to take charge of my own destiny and persuade the Boss to let go of the most valuable thing he has ever owned.

  The workday at Winning Edge is over and everyone’s gone home, but the Boss’s truck is still in the driveway. I find him in Matty’s stall, stroking the colt’s neck with a faraway look on his face. It feels like I am intruding on a private moment. I want to tiptoe away before the Boss sees me.

  Before I can move a muscle, he looks up at me and says, “I’m not selling him, Emily. I’m sorry. I know this is your big shot and I’m partly to blame for screwing it up. But I just can’t sell him.”

  I can’t say that I’m surprised. The Boss is just as hungry to prove himself in his sport as I am in mine. In the equestrian world, it doesn’t matter how talented you think you are if you don’t have a good horse to help you show everyone else. I can’t fault the Boss for wanting to hold onto Matty with every appendage on his body.

  I didn’t come to this fight empty-handed. I’ve got a pretty strong argument in favor of selling Matty up my sleeve. But I would be a hypocrite if I tried to convince the Boss to give up on his dream. So I tell him that I understand. There is nothing money can buy that’s better than a good horse. I can almost hear Margaret screaming in my ear right now, “Emily, I simply CANNOT help you if you refuse to help yourself!” However, I can’t bring myself to try to convince the Boss to give up his one opportunity to grab the brass ring. I’ll get my chance one day and it won’t be at the expense of someone else’s.

  The Boss is clearly surprised by my behavior. He reminds me of everything I have at stake here.

  I let him know I appreciate his concern, but “I can’t be responsible for you making the biggest mistake of your life. This could be it, Boss. This could be your chance to make a real name for yourself in this business. You can’t give that up just because it’s a little risky.”

  He flinches at the word “risky”. I’m not sure why. The Boss isn’t new to this game. I can’t imagine he hasn’t thought of all the money he’s going to have to lay down on the table to try to get this horse to The Derby. Last I checked, the entry fee is two hundred thousand dollars. That has to be keeping the Boss up at night. Seriously. How is a guy like him going come up with two hundred thousand dollars? The only thing he has of any real value is that horse. And he can’t sell him AND run him in The Derby at the same time. What a mess. I’m glad it’s not my problem.

  The Boss gives me a look that suggests he forgot about that entry fee and all the other big dollar entry fees he’ll need to pay in order to get Matty qualified for The Derby. I’m sensing that he’s starting to panic. I can’t say I blame him. It’s really an impossible situation. But now that I’m learning how to believe in myself in the face of certain failure, I feel the need to share my newfound courageous outlook on life.

  “Sure, it’s a
gamble, Boss. But that’s what this business is all about. Right?”

  I thought that was pretty harmless encouragement. But he looks even more upset than when I said the word “risky”. His brow is sweating and his eyes are getting a little buggy. I’m definitely not doing a very good job of teaching him how to have a courageous outlook on life. In all fairness, this is all new to me, too. All right, Emily, focus! Believe in your ability to turn this thing around.

  “Don’t worry, Boss. I’m not saying that you’re a gambler like Margaret’s dad or anything. I’m just pointing out that if you want to win big, you’ve got to be comfortable putting all your cards on the table. It’s not that I think you’re a heartbeat away from throwing it all away like Mr. Fletcher. It’s just that one has to be prepared to take chances in life. Sometimes, you just have to dive into the deep end — even when you’re not entirely sure that you can swim.”

  Wow. I can’t believe a speech like that just flowed effortlessly out of me, Emily Morris, the girl always looking for an excuse to play it safe. I take a moment to reflect on how much I’ve grown in the past few months. It feels good to be such a strong confident woman.

  On the other hand, the Boss looks like he couldn’t find the confidence to ride a tricycle, much less train a world champion racehorse. He wipes his sweaty brow, mumbling to himself that he knows what he’s doing. But the tone in his voice sounds more like Crap, I’m in over my head and I’m probably going to end up living under a bridge. I know exactly how he feels right now. He’s caught in the churning riptide of self-doubt, and I need to dive into those familiar waters and save him before he drowns.

  I put on my best “stiff upper lip” face and gently tell him, “I know what it’s like to believe that you have what it takes to be competitive even when you don’t have that ONE good horse to prove it. I KNOW you can do this. That whole sink-or-swim thing is just about the financials and you’ll totally figure those out. I can’t tell you how many times I thought to myself, “What is the daughter of a single waitress doing trying to make it in the horse business? It’s the Sport of Kings.”