Then we led the geldings to their shared paddock and turned them loose. Their antics were subdued now that they'd had a workout; they simply trotted off to graze together. As I walked Erica back to her truck, the old grey mare looked up at us, a few blades of grass dropping from her flabby lips. "She must be feeling better. She actually took a breath," I said.
Erica laughed. After I said goodbye to her and her truck disappeared from view, I noticed that contented feeling had slipped away.
Marla
Boys in white breeches and polo shirts were battling for supremacy on a grassy field. There wasn't a man among them. Not anymore.
Their highly-trained horses galloped with such intensity, they blurred before my eyes. Or maybe it was the tears that threatened to spill over my eyelids. I kept very still, and they evaporated at a painfully slow rate. I hadn't let them fall yet. I wasn't about to now.
Polite clapping. Somebody scored. Whose team were they on? Fuck. I've got to concentrate. I forced myself to sit up and watch the players change sides, but all I could think about was how badly I wanted to see him ride in without a saddle between him and his horse, and only a halter on its head. He could send that stupid ball flying, win the game, and then we could meet at his hotel room and get it on.
If only it were that simple. I longed for the days when his body was all I wanted.
I sat amongst finely-dressed people sipping appropriately expensive drinks. Most of them weren't even watching the game. My laptop was at the ready, but I hadn't typed a single word, so I guessed I was now one of those people who came for the ambiance, not for the love of the sport. But that wasn't even right, because this ambiance brought up memories that physically hurt me. I was here because it was my job to be here and write about what I saw. How could I write when what I saw had very little to do with the polo game unfolding before me?
The game ended. I realized this only after everyone started leaving. From their unenthused expressions, I gathered we must have lost. Too bad. Now I'd have to write a piece about how the other team destroyed us. But at least I wouldn't have to write something jubilant. I was so sick of acting like I cared.
All traces of him had been wiped away now. His hotel room scrubbed clean, his polo ponies sold. The bay gelding had left last, just a week ago. I could still remember the night I rode him. He'd stood like a perfect gentleman as I mounted him, but I hadn't been fooled. I'd felt his hard, tightly coiled muscles the second I settled into the saddle. His speed was exhilarating, almost frightening. Then the next day, even after his moonlit romp, the gelding flew around the polo field, body slamming rival horses and nearly turning himself inside out to get to the ball. His rider told me that to be that good in polo, a horse has to be a little crazy. "The same goes for anyone who rides him," he added with a smile that dissolves resistance and makes dresses practically unzip themselves.
I closed my laptop and shoved it into my briefcase without really thinking. I was numb, but that was better than feeling too much. I'd opened myself up to him, and while I refused to label my wounds with clichés, the bitter fact was that Lawrence Cavanaugh had broken my heart. Filled it with love and then crushed the life right out of it. And that wasn't how it was supposed to go. I broke hearts, not the other way around. I was not supposed to be standing here with deep, open wounds bleeding in the Florida sunshine. I shouldn’t be thinking maudlin, clichéd phrases. But here I am.
I'd written the letter because I wanted him. Badly. More than oxygen, or world peace.
And I'd screamed at him over the phone because I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt me. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. He had no way of knowing what he was doing to me when he left. He was one of the most enigmatic, brilliant people I'd ever met, but he was a man, and that meant he was also simple and fairly stupid. But still...how could he leave me for a horse? A horse, with four legs and a tail!
I knew that he and Eloise went way back. He'd told me that while people had used, abused and generally screwed him over, horses had never once let him down. I had seen him ride. Those horses would do anything for him. Eloise's breakdown had destroyed him. I couldn't forget the look in his eyes that night, nor the words he said.
"She is all I have," he said to me as I held him in my arms. And he honestly believed it, too.
Then he had the nerve to call me and act like we could just pick right up where we left off.
Marla, I've got to see you.
Remember how it was, Marla?
Fuck you. You left me for a horse. I could handle a blonde bimbette, but a horse? That's not even a cliché. It's an outrage.
I was walking. I didn't know where I was headed, but I was walking with purpose. I suddenly had a need to be somewhere. I didn't fight it, I just went along with my sudden, subconscious need. I was entering a building now. I decided against the elevator, and took the stairs instead. Three whole flights. I was a little out of breath by the time I reached the receptionist's desk. "Good afternoon, Ms. St. James," she said in that chipper little soprano that always made me want to sucker-punch her. "How may I help you?"
"I'd like to see Mr. Kissinger," I said sweetly. Then without waiting for her to call him, I walked over to his door and started pounding on it.
The door opened. A thoroughly unexciting man stood in front of me with a stupid grin on his face. "Marla," he said, sounding delighted. "What a surprise."
"I was in the neighborhood." There was something about my boss that made the clichés fall out of me. "I thought I'd drop by."
"Well, come on in." He stepped back to let me through. I walked by him quickly, hoping he wouldn't try to grab my ass.
I sat down at his desk, absentmindedly stroking the hardwood. "We need to talk."
He nodded. "Fire away."
I winced. "Actually, it's funny you should mention firing. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I get the feeling that my head's been on the chopping block for a while, and I can't dodge the ax anymore."
He cocked his head to one side. "I think you must have misunderstood, Marla. I think very highly of you. It's just that your personal life..."
"Has absolutely nothing to do with my ability to do my job." I pointed out.
"That may be, but rules are rules."
"So you are firing me." You stupid bastard.
His smile was hideous. I would have preferred a grimace. "I don't want to do this, Marla."
"So don't. Look the other way." I smiled and uncrossed my legs, letting them fall open. Might as well fuck with his mind a little.
Harvey glanced down, then quickly looked up, slightly flushed. "I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, Marla, I'm a very upstanding and moral citizen."
Sure you are. The only upstanding part of you is your dick. "You still haven't given me a reason for my termination," I said calmly. "I believe I'm owed at least that much."
"Your performance has suffered..." Harvey was clearly having difficulty thinking with the upstairs head. "...in recent weeks."
"Give me a specific example of how, exactly, my performance has suffered."
Harvey's forehead creased. Several moments passed him by. Then he suddenly brightened. "The piece on Cavanaugh’s departure. It was submitted several weeks late."
I jumped out of my chair, utterly livid. "You said I should take my time with that piece," I said through my teeth. "You said it was important that I do it right."
Harvey looked startled. "I don't recall ever saying those things."
"Yes, you did, you son of a bitch," I spat. "Don't even try to use that against me. I'm not an idiot. I'm smart enough to know that you firing me has nothing to do with what I've done with him and everything to do with what I won't do with you."
Harvey was still in his chair, looking confused. I wasn't sure how he managed it, because I thought I spelled it all out pretty clearly. Do you need a translator, Harvey? Am I using too many big words? "Did you think I was being coy?" I said to him. "Or that I was playing 'hard to get'? I thought I made myself clear that I wasn'
t interested, but maybe you need to hear the exact extent of my lack of interest. Here it is: even if you were the last man on earth, I would still tell you to go fuck yourself."
He stared at me with an expression of shock and bewilderment, like a stupid dog that got stepped on. For the first time in months, I was enjoying myself. "I don't want this job anymore," I said on my way out. "If I did, you'd be one sorry asshole. But let me give you one piece of advice. If you're smart - which, by the way, I seriously doubt - this will be the last time you try to screw over a woman."
Then I went to my apartment and packed up everything that I still cared about. I was going to book a flight to Cabo and go have one hell of a rebound.
Erica
"Good morning, Mrs. Allsteen," I said to the mother of my newest student. I was trying, unsuccessfully, not to stare at her designer sundress, gladiator sandals and sunglasses. She was the kind of woman who would go to my mother's parties. Hell, she'd probably host her own swanky, gossipy parties.
"Oh, thank you so much for coming, Erica," Mrs. Allsteen exclaimed, looking quite distressed. "I do hope you can help my daughter with her pony. She is an excellent young horsewoman, but he's been a real problem for her lately."
That was basically how my last conversation with Mrs. Allsteen had started. She called me up and spent the better part of fifteen minutes telling me how talented her daughter Maggie was. She used words like precocious, prodigy, and gifted. Then she spent the next ten minutes telling me how her daughter's $30,000 Welsh pony was "a horrible animal...just a nasty little thing who takes advantage of my poor Maggie whenever he can." And many more choice words. Finally she asked if I could help, and I said I'd give it a try. I was sure, at the time, that the woman had greatly overestimated her daughter's ability and was judging the pony unfairly. I was even more certain now that I had met Mrs. Allsteen. She might have been someone who threw around terms like "horsewoman", but she was anything but.
"Well, if Maggie's ready, then I'd like to get started." I was anxious to get this done so I could get paid. I was in dire need of funds since I'd begun devoting a large portion of my spare time to a pro bono client.
Mrs. Allsteen nodded. "Juan will have the pony tacked up in no time at all."
Juan? Oh. Right. They have a groom. I sighed. I had a distinct feeling that I would not make it through the entire lesson without being "politely" asked to leave. Or throwing up my hands and abandoning ship.
Soon I spotted a smallish man leading a dainty palomino pony to the outdoor ring. My critical gaze took in the pony's exceptional conformation, glowing coat and cute, even blaze and socks. His miniature saddle and bridle had been cleaned and polished (courtesy of Juan, no doubt). "I'd like to get familiar with the pony," I said to Mrs. Allsteen. "What's his name?"
"Twinkle," she replied. I wanted to ask if she was serious, but I had a feeling vomit would erupt if I opened my mouth just then. So I just walked over to the pony. "Hey, little guy," I said softly. I refused to call such a classy, dignified creature "Twinkle".
The pony regarded me with interest. I gave his tack a quick visual inspection; it was all extremely well made and I had no reason to believe that it was the cause of his behavior. The cause of his behavior...was late for her lesson. "Will Maggie be joining us this morning?" I asked her mother, unable to prevent the words from becoming saturated with sarcasm.
"She's probably finishing her breakfast," Mrs. Allsteen answered swiftly. "It's very important for children to be well nourished before exercise, especially one as athletic as Maggie." She looked rather disapproving, as if I should know better than to question her daughter's work ethic.
I inhaled deeply. "Well, then I'd like to work with...Twinkle...a bit." I turned to Juan. "Is there a longeline I could borrow?"
"Of course, Miss."
I took Twinkle's reins from him, and he headed for the stable. I was glad to see I wasn't the lone normal person in the land of the crazy rich.
Soon Juan was back with the longeline and a whip. I thanked him (he looked shocked). Juan tied up Twinkle's reins so he wouldn't step on them and threaded the longeline through his bit rings before handing the pony off to me.
I stepped back, allowing the line to unroll. Twinkle stood perfectly still. "Walk," I said firmly. Without any other encouragement, Twinkle stepped forward. The lash of the longe whip lay limply in the air as Twinkle instantly performed transitions, including advanced ones like walk to canter and canter to halt, from my voice alone. With no side reins, he held his head exactly where it ought to be and stepped under himself nicely behind. Maggie's mother stared at him with her head cocked to one side. "How are you making him behave? This pony is a terror!"
"Um..." I struggled with the impossible task of finding a way to tell Mrs. Allsteen that her daughter, not the pony, was the problem. Fortunately, I caught a glimpse of a small girl with blonde hair and hot pink riding clothes out of the corner of my eye. "Looks like Maggie's on her way," I said dully, halting Twinkle and rolling up the longeline. "Finally."
"Maggie, dear," her mother said, more fondly than was strictly necessary, "This is Erica. She's going to help you with Twinkle."
Maggie didn't even bother looking in my direction. "I don't need any help, it's my stupid pony that needs a trainer."
"Yes, of course, dear," Mrs. Allsteen hastened to assure her daughter. "That's what I meant."
Once I had untied Twinkle's reins, I turned to the little girl. Her fuchsia breeches and polo shirt were bad enough, but the helmet was shiny, too. It caused me to start blinking uncontrollably. "Hi, Maggie," I said between fits of blinking.
"Hi." Maggie looked less than thrilled. No, the opposite of thrilled. "What's wrong with your eyes?"
Normally this was when the parent would admonish their child for being rude, but I wasn't even a little shocked when Mrs. Allsteen failed to act. She just smiled and walked away, leaving me alone with her little piranha.
"How long have you been riding?" I asked Maggie, making sure to keep any condescension out of my voice.
Maggie proceeded to tell me (with hands on hips and her chin jutted out) that "I've been riding for a whole year. I've had tons of lessons, and I even got first place in a show. I know what I'm doing, okay?"
"Okay." I said calmly. "Let's see you ride this pony." I walked Twinkle over to the mounting block.
Maggie's eyes narrowed. She could sense, I was sure, that I did not think she was the Best Rider Ever. She strode over to Twinkle, ascended the mounting block and then vaulted onto Twinkle's back in show-offy way, slamming into the saddle. The pony laid his ears back in discomfort. "See?" She pointed at Twinkle's ears. "He's mean."
"No, he's not. He's pinning his ears because you hurt his back when you mount that way," I pointed out.
Maggie glared at me. "I know how to mount a horse," she snapped.
"No, you don't. Now get off that pony so I can show you how to do it right."
Maggie stared at me in shock. "You're being mean," she said in a whiny voice.
"No, I'm being honest. Do you want to learn or not?" I was starting to begin all my sentences with the word "no". This was not a good sign.
To my surprise, Maggie dismounted, treating her feet with much more care than Twinkle's back. "Okay," I said. "Mounting from a block is a good idea, but you also have to put your left foot in the stirrup. Then you can bounce once to create momentum, and swing into the saddle lightly. Think you can do that?"
Maggie shrugged. "Sure, if it's that important to you." She climbed onto the mounting block and mounted in the way I'd instructed her with surprising skill.
"Very good," I said pleasantly.
"Your way isn't very much fun," Maggie complained.
"Yes, but it's much more fun for Twinkle. See his ears? They're not pointing backwards, are they?"
Maggie rolled her eyes. "Can I start riding now?"
I don't know. Can you ride? I doubt it. "Yes. Squeeze him lightly with your legs and say 'walk'."
; Maggie did as she was told, for what might have been the first time in her life. Twinkle stayed in perfect "park" mode. Maggie began thumping him with her heels, while the pony gazed at the distant skyline and twitched his sides occasionally as if she were an insect which, while faintly annoying, was no reason to get in a tizzy. I could see Maggie's frustration mounting. "He won't go! He always does this!" Angrily, she jerked him in the mouth.
I stepped forward and yanked the reins out of her little sparkly gloved hands. "Ow!" Maggie cried. "What'd you do that for?"
"The first thing every rider must learn," I said through my teeth, "Is that you never, EVER jerk a horse in the mouth like that. The reason your pony won’t go forward is because you’ve taught him to ignore you. Jerking him in the mouth will not make him do what you want. It hurts him, and when you hurt a horse, you risk having it buck you off or rear up and fall on top of you. And it would serve you right if that happened, because this is a fine pony and you're treating him like a piece of garbage."
Maggie's eyes were wide open, and she had gone white. I reached down and picked up a crop that was lying in the sand near the mounting block. "You will use this once, behind your leg, if he does not listen when you squeeze his sides. If I see you beating that pony, I will do the same to you. I don't care if your mother is watching. Do you understand me?"
Maggie reached out tentatively, and I placed the crop in her hand, which was shaking, I noted with satisfaction. "Squeeze him with your legs and say 'walk'. If he doesn’t walk, then use the crop. Once."
I saw Maggie squeeze Twinkle's sides. "Walk," she squeaked at him. Predictably, he did not walk, or even blink. But when she tapped him with the crop, his eyes brightened, and he took a step forward.
"That was good," I said. "Now try it again..."
By the end of the hour they had progressed to walk-trot transitions. Twinkle still needed the occasional reminder, but he was beginning to respond to his young rider like the impeccably trained pony he was. "Well, that was a good start," I said to Maggie. "You should dismount now and walk Twinkle to cool him down." He wasn't actually hot, but I wanted to instill some good horsemanship in Maggie, something her other trainers had clearly forgotten to do.
Training Harry Page 10
