My Ellie (The Perfectly Paired #1)

Chapter 17

Ellie

After being thoroughly scolded for being three minutes late to my morning practice, things go from bad to worse as Remi refuses to execute the passage movement in our routine. In place of what is supposed to be a measured, collected trot, he’s giving me a collected canter—which is throwing our pacing off entirely.

We’re nearing the end of our session, and this is the fourth time Remi has missed the passage. Even Coach is beginning to lose his patience, “Ask him again, Eleanor—”

“Don’t ask him, fucking tell him.” My mother’s arms are crossed, riding crop in one hand and eyes fixed on me. She taps her foot furiously as one of Coach’s assistants pauses the music for the eighth time.

Dressage is an extremely complex sport, so it’s not uncommon for horses to miss one or two cues in a routine, but Remi seems a little restless—the passage movement is usually second nature to him.

“I think he might have a loose shoe,” I make a show of turning and checking each of his legs from where I sit in the saddle, “Or some muscle soreness, he was a little tender coming out of his stall this morning.” A lie, and not a very good one. It’s usually quite easy to tell if a horse isn’t moving properly, and I’m speaking to people who happen to have quite a lot of equine experience.

“He doesn’t look lame.” Charlotte pipes up from the gallery. She sits with Peter and Philippa, right behind the team videographer—the wonderful curator of the hours of tape I sit and analyze every day.

I notice my mother taking in every square inch of Remi from where she stands next to Coach. Her eyes are narrowed, roving over him as Coach opens his mouth again, “Well, best not to take any chances.” Part of me chose the lie because I know how proactive Coach is about injuries and preventative care. If a horse is injured it, depending on the severity, it can take years for them to recover fully. His own riding career was marred with a handful of terrible injuries, resulting in him switching horses several times before winning his gold medal.

He pushes himself up from where he was leaning against the gallery railing. “Far better to be safe rather than sorry, what do you think Edith?” He turns to where my mother stands.

I hate how he defers to her for all matters pertaining to me and Remi, but I keep my mouth tightly shut.

My stress and anxiety are beginning to abate, and I feel a little ashamed at the relief I feel about the possibility of practice ending early.

After a long pause, my mother sighs loudly through her nose, “Follow me, Eleanor.” She stalks out of the arena without another word .

I dismount, leading Remi out of the arena. We keep our distance, following my mother to the small annex that houses the team veterinarians.

The veterinary squad that assists our team is made up of one head vet and several veterinary assistants. They stay on site during training camp, taking over the small annex to the left of the main stable block. The double wide garage is converted into a walk in horse-friendly examination area, complete with expensive-looking machines and a couple of feeding stations to occupy their patients.

We’re seen to immediately as we enter the annex, a host of assistants greet us and proceed to examine every square inch of my horse.

“No signs of ligament stress, or any loose shoes according to the farrier.” Doctor Constantine, the team’s head vet, stares down at his clip board as one of his assistants runs her hands all over Remi’s legs. He’s an older, graying gentleman with a no-nonsense way of telling you exactly how it is.

I suppose your bedside manner doesn’t matter so much when your patients are, quite literally, animals.

“But you say he feels off under the saddle, correct?” He lifts his gaze to mine through bushy, down turned brows.

“Yes,” I supply quickly, “He bolted from the horsebox a couple of weeks ago, I wonder if that might have something to do with it.” I feel like I’m digging myself further into a hole, but I can’t put the fucking spade down. A sharp look from my mother has me retreating within myself. She’s been deathly silent since we left the arena,

“I see,” He flicks a piece of paper over the top of the clipboard before scribbling something down. “We’ll run a couple more tests, some x-rays as well and then return him to the stables where he’ll be observed for the next twelve hours.”

I nod, “Thank you, for your help.”

“Go and get some sleep, Miss Stirling,” He tucks his clipboard under his arm before turning to look me over with a clinical glare, “You look exhausted.” With that, he retreats towards one of the complex-looking medical machines.

I take a couple of steps towards Remi, rising on my toes to mess with his forelock, “Sorry, old chap. Lots of treats coming your way after this.” The whispered apology is far from necessary, the veterinary team are fantastic, and I know he’ll be pampered all afternoon, but it still feels a bit shitty to leave him as I turn on my heel and follow my mother out of the garage.

She stops abruptly just as we make it to the coach house, and I’m caught off guard by the rage in her face. “If it comes to light that there is, in fact, nothing wrong with that fucking horse, Eleanor,” She’s seething, hand clenched around her riding crop as the other one points a shaking finger at me, “And you just felt like ending a practice session early on a whim , there will be consequences. Serious ones.” She takes a step towards me, “We are perhaps days away from the Olympic Scout showing up here and you pull this shit.” She presses her shaking palm to her forehead, turning to survey the courtyard in disbelief, “This could not have happened at a worse time. And, on the off chance that his test results come back indicating some kind of sprain or injury, I’m of half a mind to send him off to make glue. He doesn’t fancy listening to his cues, I don’t fancy bank rolling a horse that can’t even pull off a proper fucking passage !” She screams, throwing her hands up in the air before stalking for the coach house door.

The common room is relatively empty, except for a rather stressed-looking team assistant typing away on a laptop in the corner of the room.

“Since you find yourself with a little extra time on your hands,” My mother makes her way to the television, bending to fish out an old video tape from a worn cardboard box. “This will be an adequate use of your time.”

“Mother if I could just rest, I can watch this tape later and I swear I’ll take notes—”

“You’ll do it now,” She snaps, pushing the dust covered video tape into the equally dusty machine, “Whilst your failure is still fresh in your mind. When this one is done, swap it out for the 1998 Olympic tape, it’s right here.” She taps a see-through plastic container before placing it on top of the machine.

I take a deep breath and almost regret it immediately. Her eyes and nostrils flare as if I’ve just given her the middle finger.

She steps towards me, gripping her riding crop in both hands as if to restrain them from wrapping around my neck.

“This next week will decide the course of the rest of your life. I don’t know if you’re really grasping that.”

Oh, I’m grasping it.

I feel nauseous with worry every day, I can barely eat unless Colton cooks and sits with me. Sanya texts me to remind me to take my meds and drink water throughout the day because it’s obvious how badly I’m functioning right now. I can barely even respond to her messages.

Why can’t my mother see what this is doing to me?

“Can I trust you to watch these tapes? Peter’s mother is visiting and has requested I join her for an early dinner.” She runs a hand through her short bob cut with a laugh that makes my entire body tense up, “I honestly can’t believe I have to ask my twenty-four-year-old daughter if she can be trusted to carry out a simple task, how sad. Well? Can I?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, “You know what—don’t bother answering that. You—you there,” She clicks her fingers in the direction of the assistant on the other side of the room.

The young woman turns her head towards us before scanning the area for anyone else my mother could be addressing.

‘Yes, you, the one on the one on the computer. What’s your name?”

“I—I’m Caitlin.” She sounds unsure, almost as if she’s the one asking the question.

“Well, Caitlin, please keep an eye on my daughter. She’s to analyze this film for the next four hours.”

Caitlin looks between myself and my mother a couple of times, her hands hover above the keyboard of her laptop, “Yes, Mrs. Stirling, of course.” With several rapid nods of her head.

My mother looks at me for a moment, eyes assessing as they take in my appearance. And for a second, I think I see something soften in her face, just for the briefest of moments she looks as if she might concede—might let me have the afternoon off to just rest .

But, as if in slow motion, she clenches her jaw, lifting her chin “More coffee, Eleanor, less complaining. We’re all tired. Do not let me down.”

I know she isn’t just talking about the tape she’s assigned to me for the afternoon.