Cold comfort.

We are supposed to be at Caleb's Christmas party downtown but here I sit in my purple striped pajama pants and a threadbare white t-shirt instead of the plum satin cocktail dress that is still laid out on the bed upstairs.

Ben did not make our excuses on my behalf, no one did, we simply didn't show. Ben wants to be home, wants to be with me and the children and live quietly for a while and I have one of those headaches, the ones that I won't admit to until the last moment, the ones that will see me shutting down completely in a few more minutes and curling up into a ball to withstand the night. Ignoring the angry text messages and voice mails. Caleb will be outraged. He can wait.

These headaches are the ones Lochlan would wish away for me, letting me sip brandy mixed in juice to numb the hurt, packing bags of ice around me so I could sleep, staying awake to wring out a cold towel to rest against my forehead. Always reassuring me my head was not going to explode. I was not going to die. I would be okay the next day. I would wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life against the pain.

And bullshit, I would tell him through tears. How do you know it won't explode? I was afraid of that pain, because I don't feel pain like normal people, so if I can feel it, it must be very very bad.

Lochlan said the same reminders tonight, as Ben gently yelled at me to go to bed already, that there's no honor in suffering by trying to stay awake.

He's right. I'm going.

Now with extra noodles.

Ben took me out today for some shopping, and then a little more shopping, and then some window shopping. We went to the ever-popular ramen place that I fell in love with when I got here, for their deliriously good akaoni with bean sprouts, and then we did a little more shopping before finally getting the Christmas tree and bringing it to the school to pick up the kids.

Ben's so unconventional. I would tell you how unconventional but I'm pretty sure you can figure it out. He's awesome like that.

Sadly, I was on Robson Street a mere two hours before Katie Holmes went shopping there. I would have loved to have met her. Ben made some comment about how he would love to eat her. You can take that any way you want, just remember, he eats everything. He's already taken a bite of the Christmas tree.

He said it was delicious.

Caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom.

Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

The whisper-war this afternoon was quashed by Lochlan, who leveled a stunning reminder to Caleb that it was just fine if Ruthie wanted to wear her favorite uh..very casual shirt to her Christmas concert. She's almost twelve. She needs to make decisions like this. She needs to be considered for input into her own life.

Snort.

I will be DAMNED if I let Lochlan and Caleb spend the next thirty years debating every single thing she ever does but it was nice to see one of them refuse to take it any further, opting to not engage in negative energy. Especially today.

I love hearing the children sing and dance their way through performances. I love the fact that they've made new, close friends and have fun at their new school. It's a safe place. It's a good place. Ruth played with the school band as well, so we were treated to multiple performances and both Ruth and Henry came home exhausted and elated.

I love to watch Caleb's face as he goes in expecting to add more fuel to his private-boarding-school fire and comes away with a renewed understanding of just how perfect it is for the children here because this school was chosen carefully. So carefully that the house was an afterthought, a stroke of pure luck as we chose to do things backwards on purpose.

So far so good, hey?

Speaking of backwards, Ben is off for the holidays and taking his own monstrously beautiful time to decompress. We spent a good hour at the post office today, attempting to fit all of the boxes my family sent into the car. Three tries, it took.

You would drive a tiny car around over a big truck if your gas cost $1.36 a litre as well, and frankly my trunk is a little crowded for winter. I have a shovel, a snow brush/scraper, jumper cables, kitty litter, granola bars, bungee cords, the big x-jack for actually changing a tire, over the stupid j-shaped thing that came with the car, and the cloth bags I use for grocery shopping, since I mostly forget them unless I keep them in the car.

Did I mention my car is tiny? Who cares? It has almost three hundred horsepower and really you're still marveling that people might willingly pay that for gas, aren't you?

I figured. It's okay.

Anyway, we dropped off the boxes and went back out and had lunch at KFC. For some reason vacation=chicken to Ben or maybe it's just comfort/reward food so since he's mentioned it three times in three weeks, off we went today. I had a big crunch sandwich and almost had to spend the afternoon trying to fit MYSELF into the car. If you don't know the big crunch story then I should probably tell it. When I was pregnant with Ruth I lived on big crunch sandwiches, mostly because they were one of the very few food items I could keep down. (Here is not the part where I do not tell you how many pounds I gained during that pregnancy because dear lord no one needs to hear that, now, do they?)

Let's just say it all turned out fine. I watched my little girl and my little boy (a worse pregnancy by FAR, made better only by orange juice) sing their guts out this afternoon and I figure the children got all of their talent from the chickens and the oranges because they put the rest of us to shame.

Soulbound.

I spent a long time outrunning Caleb. Life is a lot easier this way, alright? I have no need to censor yesterday's post about Batman offering to make my life 'easier' because it's been done by everyone (except the one who counts) a hundred times over and nothing ever changes. It can't be done. Besides. He is Henry's father. Henry has lost enough.

I am waiting for the day when Lochlan finally realizes he is fifteen years out of the circus and rejoins reality and fixes this. He's not going to, though. I've waited so long I know it now and the three of us are stuck like this until we die. Not the way I hoped to spend my grown-up years, if they ever begin, but good enough that with some effort and a lot of frantic peacemaking, it's tolerable.

In other words, money won't fix this. Change won't fix this and death certainly didn't fix it. It's just the way things are.

In other news, I just figured out how to pay the bills that come in from crossing bridges here on the lower mainland without leaving the house or giving anyone my credit card number. And I'm making fudge. Which is stupidly easy and prohibitively expensive all at once. I suspect once PJ finds out there won't be anything left but maybe it will deflect them from my mom's annual Christmas cookie tin, which is waiting for me at the post office.

Dead lines.

But just tonight I won’t leave
I’ll lie and you’ll believe
Just tonight I will see
It’s all because of me

Batman was thoroughly amused when I ducked into this little hole-in-the-wall exclusive grocery market on our shopping trip.

I held the can high when I came out. Cranberry jelly at last! We'll need a little bit, just a taste, with turkey or it isn't Christmas. And I've been looking everywhere. Sadly it didn't fit in my handbag, so he had to carry it until we bought something else and could put it in a bag. He looked ridiculous contemplating the Breitlings holding a can of preserves. Or at least the clerk thought so.

(We didn't buy any watches.)

Batman flew up to see what was going on with Caleb and also to help me shop for Ben, which I'm not going to say much about because Ben will read it. So we walked and shopped and talked and he prodded and poked my brain and asked his ridiculously blunt questions. I'm used to it, he talks a lot like Lochlan most of the time, there is never any attempt made at grace or tact, the questions are shot at me like bullets and my armor deflects all but the biggest one. That one goes right between the eyes.

Why, Bridget?

I don't know.

He paused and looked back at me, shaking his head. I am never less than one hundred percent honest with him. I don't ask him to call. I don't invite him to visit, I don't ask for or need the annual envelope that assures him of my discretion, as if I would give him anything less, and I have no need for his influence. He gives it freely. He cares. We're become friends.

Maybe you can find out.

Maybe.

He doesn't talk to me about the right things.

I'm aware.

He picked up a sterling silver bauble and frowned at it, showing me. I nodded and said he should take it home. To his family. He bought it for his Christmas tree while I picked up reflective ornaments and studied the girl in the concrete room. He startled me out of my examination with a hand on the small of my back and I jumped a hundred feet into the air, catching my coat on a sharp cloud, hanging by a thread before dropping gently back to the ground, falling in step with him as he hurried down the sidewalk with purpose.

Bridget. I can end this. Is that what you want?

I had lost track of what he was talking about. End our visits? End Christmas shopping? End impromptu brunches at overpriced restaurants?

End what?

Caleb playing these fucking mind games with you. You want it to stop, you say so.

I choked on my breath in the middle of the sidewalk, stopping only to be jostled by people trying to pass. Batman grabbed my elbow and pulled me out of the traffic.

Look, if you want it to stop, I can do that, but you can't play games either. You can't spend time with him. Only Henry can. You won't work for him anymore. You won't be ruled or punished by him but you can't want him either.

He isn't Cole. He will never be Cole and that's a damn good thing because one monster in your life is enough and Caleb tries but he falls short. Only he seems to keep you coming back. So I'm going to give you a little time to think about this and I'll contact you when I come back up in a few weeks. Either you cut him out of your life as much as possible under the circumstances or you admit that you're playing his game and we stop worrying about you where he is concerned. Does that work?

Yes. I am nodding slowly. I am twelve and overwhelmed with information and I just want the talking to stop. I want the concern to stay. I want everything and I don't want to feel guilty for it. But then I see myself in the shop window and I am not twelve. I'm in my thirties and I have a brain and a nice coat and expensive shoes and men are stopping to stare at me on the sidewalk and I'm giving my power away to someone who's taking this for granted and he can't control me anymore because I'm NOT TWELVE.

But my voice betrays me, just like it always does. Heart, in pieces, ruling over mind. I become twelve when I can no longer process horror, hunger or true love.

Batman has just become the babysitter. He sees this in my eyes, and he takes my hand and leads me back to the car.

Just under three weeks, Bridget. Let's meet again then and see how things are. At New Years.

I nod.

You're going to have a terrific holiday, Bridget. I can feel it.

I nod again and he stops trying. It's too late. This girl is gone in a blur of cranberries and adjuration.

Princess footnotes.

Benjamin wants me to point out why we haven't found a tree yet.

How about this one, bee?

It's too fat.

Too fat?

Yes, the branches. I don't want a Douglas fir.

Okay, what about this one?

Too fat.

It's a Fraser.

No, too fat around. It's wide. It will take up too much room.

This one?

Too pale.

What?

Has to be dark green. It's not dark enough.

This one?

Dry. Look at the needles that come off when I touch it.

So fresh, narrow, dark and small needle length.

Right.

Okay, here. This is the one. A Noble fir. Perfect height and everything.

No, that's too skinny. Like pretentious designer skinny. I want homey.

Okay. Bridget?

Yes?

Do you like any of these?

I'll know when I see it. What's your hurry?

Christmas is less than two weeks away.

Oh, you're right. Then we should probably pick one.

Yeah. Okay so which one?

Can we check that other place first? I'd really hate to get one of these and find out the ones at the other lot were perfect.

Does it really matter?

Yes. Christmas has got to be perfect.

Why?

Because last year was so hard.

His eyes filled up and he looked away for a minute. Then he spoke, clearly struggling to keep control.

We'll find one during the week, okay princess? It will be the perfect one. I think we're too tired tonight anyway. Let's go home.

He gave me a kiss on the forehead, not saying another word about how badly I need everything to be right for a while. He's the best Christmas present a girl could ask for.

Naughty or Nice.

(Thirteen days til Christmas! Hope we find a tree soon, and the hiding place for the cranberry jelly in this city.)

In my bid to retain my title as most irreverent pop-culture consumer alive, I finally saw Inception this weekend. Or rather, Ben poked me repeatedly to keep me awake while we concentrated very hard on keeping track of what was going on.

It was incredibly good. Sort of a blend of The Matrix, Flatliners and Paycheck, actually. Not "picture of the year" (as I have read so many people wax enthusiastically) by my standards but entertaining and very thought-provoking. Tom Hardy? Wow. He's slightly hot, isn't he?

In other news, we finally unlocked the Hockey Game without a Fight achievement in life, or rather Ben and Lochlan did, since I just watch. This could be because Caleb sent his regrets, but I won't call it a miracle until they finish the season peacefully and without incident.

Santa is watching, you know. Maybe that's the secret. Have the big man keep an eye on them and they will always be on their best.

Haha. Are you kidding? If only things were that simple.

Big fat drops of circumscription.

Another day, another rain warning. A sub-tropical system. My only goal is to get the Christmas tree and get it set up before the deluge hits. The sound of it on the roof is so lovely though. I daresay we're not going to get that white Christmas (though there are a few snowflakes listed in the advanced forecast).

Oh....well, darn it.

Snort.

In other news, I held my ground against Caleb, who has now tried just about everything (short of telling the truth) to get me to assume control of the company. I'm doing okay with that. I don't really want to talk about it. It makes Lochlan tense, Ben is terribly suspicious and guarded and Caleb is confused by my inability to take him for his word.

Makes me wonder where he's been all these years.

Every single moment has been a trap, every word a lie and every time I let my guard down I wind up falling into a black hole and I've been doing so much better lately. The company runs well as is. My household runs well. My affairs of the heart seem smooth, presently. And he wants to fuck that up with a power shift and a whole lot of changes and some sort of underhanded, devious stunt to make good on his earlier offer. Leave Ben for me and I'll give you anything.

See? See?

He's not that bright I guess. If I wanted to be with him, I would have chosen him. He's lucky he's gets what he does, because the more he pulls stunts like this, the more afraid I become and the less interested I become in spending any time with him at all. I have a house full of perfectly good men, I don't need whatever he's offering.

Maybe he'll read this and stop. Maybe pigs will fly, the sky will fall and hell will freeze over. Probably not. Pigs need to evolve with wings first, the sky isn't going anywhere and hell is pretty damned warm.

Well, it is.

I have to go. Another long day of beautiful rain, even more beautiful boys and a whole lot of phonecalls to ignore lies ahead of me. Hopefully procurement of a Christmas tree too.

My Christmas 'bonus' was sent back a little while ago. It will be there at the front desk when Caleb picks up his mail.

As much as the whole Pepper Potts thing is fun and all, Caleb has no business dropping this in my lap, playing whatever game it is that he's playing, raising the stakes until I can no longer see them, let alone reach them, and getting to me since he can't go after the boys as obstacles in his way anymore because they won't allow it.

(Wow, I've become Lochlan's ventriloquist dummy. Who would have thunk it? Just picture him talking in my voice or something.)

I will wait for Caleb's own facial expression (inevitable disappointment, but with class and possibly french cuffs) and perhaps he can come up with an actual reasonable bonus for me so I can have that little thrill of some extra cash in my pocket instead of this wedge that he tried to drive between me and the boys or whatever trick it is that he's up to. Fuck the excuses and the imaginary white flags. I really should know better by now.

Occam's Bridget.

(Hi. New? Well, just remember when I'm very confused I have even more words than usual.)

He made salmon and scrambled eggs, coffee, English muffins and screwdrivers. I wondered how I was going to eat all of it when mornings find me mainlining a sixteen-ounce coffee and little else until I am fully awake. I was aware that my hairpins were far too tight, digging into my neck from a low chignon but he seemed pleased that I am beginning to look like myself again. I find that so interesting seeing as how the haircut was his spontaneous freakout and he has since removed the scissors, purchasing a better, downright dangerous letter opener and a set of box cutters to replace them.

Caleb invited me for a business breakfast, an annual tradition in which he sets holiday bonus amounts on an individual basis, and I lobby him upward, fairly detailing each person's contribution from a wider perspective, taking into account work ethic, hours spent and a host of other factors (including the budget). Today's was more difficult, after a year of the boys working for themselves and each other, with calculations that found me standing up and reaching over to grasp the pen from his shirt pocket so I could scribble notes on the palm of my hand. He frowned, going to fetch a notebook from the desk.

By the time we'd arrived at a concrete set of numbers the table was covered with balled-up pages from the notebook with my teenage block-print postmodern penmanship scribbled over everything. My champagne and orange juice remained untouched. Warm. Caleb finished it while he cleaned away the dishes. I had already taken over his computer to begin to input the figures, feeling tiny, swallowed up by his giant monolith of a desk.

And then he told me we had reservations for lunch and would I please go wash off all of the writing on my hands? Remember the facial expressions I have? I bet this one was epic, a blend of what the fuck and how dare you drag my day out any longer. The numbers on the screen were swimming. Ben and I managed a whole four hours of sleep last night. And where in the hell did I put my coffee tumbler?

I waited and waited for him to be ready, too. He was reapplying his evil on a quick call and finally he covered the phone and told me to go downstairs and John would walk me to the restaurant and he would be along in minutes.

My grand plan was just to have lunch with John instead and freeze Caleb out, only I wasn't about to let John in on my plan until we arrived and then I approached the host to let him know half the party had arrived (the little half) and was led to a beautiful little table in the corner, by the window. John wisely declined to join me. I waited, watching the rain bathe the glass in sheets of bright misery and wonder how I wound up here, in a place where I can admire the greenery and wear an unlined raincoat in the middle of December.

My admiration of the trees was cut short with Caleb's arrival. Or rather, I finally noticed he was standing there watching me. I smiled (whoops, he grows on me sometimes, like moss or it's the brainwashing. You choose.) and he sat down across from me. Without opening the menu he ordered for both of us (mushroom soup for me, baked halibut for himself), asking that the kitchen put a rush on it.

Then the interruptions ceased and we found ourselves without witnesses and without a looming workload once again. We never do well in these predicaments. It always seems to end badly.

He reached into his suit jacket breast pocket, pulling out an envelope which he placed on the table in front of me.

What is this?

Your bonus, princess.

I didn't bring any profit to the company this year.

You keep everything together. If it falls apart there's no company to be had. You have earned it. And there's something else.

What do you mean? What else?

Do you want your pictures?

What pictures? (I am not playing coy with him, don't misunderstand. There are Cole's pictures, and then there are Caleb's pictures. One set makes me sad, the other blackens my mail, if you get my drift.)

Cole's portrait studies of you, plus the ones I took.

What will I have to do to get them?

His whole face fell. The monster in the mirror, only aware of the true magnitude of his wickedness when the helpless twelve-year old points it out.

I'll bring them over on the weekend. They'll have to be couriered in from Toronto or I would do it sooner, Bridget.

What do you want for them? I'm repeating myself because if there's a catch, I don't want it.

Nothing. I didn't know how badly you wanted them. I was simply making sure Cole's work was properly archived and cataloged and I figured you didn't want to deal with it. You were sort of destructive with his things, except for the items you kept for me. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that? Well, I did, and if I can return the favor then I'd like to. And as a show of good faith, I will give you the other ones.

Why didn't you give them to me when I asked, Caleb? I've asked you a thousand times for those photos.

I didn't want you to be rash and destroy them. Cole's work is the children's legacy. Somehow I think you won't ruin anything now.

What makes you think that?

You seem different somehow. And I don't want to ruin anything for you.

Different?

Yes. In a good way. You seem calmer. More focused. Happier, almost. It's a contagious happy, and I forgot how incredibly good it makes me feel. All of us, actually. Not just me.

I am suspicious. Those photos are incredible leverage. There's no way in hell he's going to give them up so easily.

And...

Oh, here we go.

You chose wisely. You chose interestingly. Ben was everyone's longshot, but he definitely makes you happiest. But he also doesn't cut you off from Lochlan, from the others, from me. That says a lot. That means a lot. So maybe this is for him, too.

You like him.

I always have.

Any love for Lochlan?

No. Not today, princess. On that note, I'll have John take you home. You can let them know I'm giving the photos back because you asked me too. They'll be suspicious, Bridge, but time will show them I'm less of a monster as time goes by. I'm getting older. I have a son who is beginning to become a man in his own right, I have no desire to make his mother unhappy.

A kiss on my forehead, a quick, strong hold and he was gone. I turned to look for John and he was right there. I never understand how Caleb does that.

He was right about the reactions.

Ben lifted his eyebrows right to the top of his head when I told him about my lunch. Lochlan was all words and outrage and mistrust to the point where Ben had to shout over him to get him to stop for just a minute.

While they continued the debate over Caleb's intentions right through dinner preparations, the meal itself and cleanup, I retired to my bedroom to change out of the dress and into my pajama bottoms and one of Ben's t-shirts. I won't be up late tonight, I'm exhausted. It was only then that I remembered the envelope with my Christmas bonus in my handbag. I figured it was a token amount, maybe enough for a very good haircut or a keychain from Chanel. Maybe even enough for a weekend pass for Whistler.

I slit the envelope with my thumb, giving myself a paper cut. Where is the eight-inch-long razor-sharp letter opener when I need it?

Oh no.

He gave me everything. All of it.

Controlling interest.