Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ A Saiyan For All Seasons ❯ Disguises ( Chapter 12 )

A Saiyan For All Seasons

 

Chapter Eleven

 

Disguises

 

Disclaimer: Akira Toriyama's, not mine.

 

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Bulma lay in a daze, draped across her bed and running her fingers rhythmically through the long ribbons of her facemask. Her costume was a relatively unimaginative ensemble. Lace and satin petticoats puffed out the bottom of her gown and thinned to pinch delicately at the waist. A corset, drawn tightly around her, joined the skirt and pushed her breasts up so high only a profusion of lace at the top stopped her falling out completely. It was based on an English eighteenth century design with a small veil, clipped into an elaborately decorated blonde wig. It was supposed to be a lady's outfit, but the costume jewellery and lack of silk made Bulma more inclined to think it resembled a `lady of the night's' garb than that of an heiress. A thought, which for the situation, was certainly fitting. She sure felt like a loose woman.

 

Choosing outfits `off the rack' wasn't exactly an occupation Bulma freely engaged in, and she would probably never do it again, but for tonight it didn't seem to matter. Tonight she needed to hide. Not just from the media, but from herself and what her life was about to become. Living in anonymity for a few short hours, being on the arm of one of the two men in her life who truly cared was all that mattered. Well… that and the copious amounts of alcohol she planned on consuming.

 

The day was passed in a stupefying haze. It softened cognisance, stunned the senses and eventually suppressed every feeling she had - good or bad. While she was in the costume shop and the manager apologised for not being able to offer her anything original, she hadn't even batted an eyelid. She agreed, as though on autopilot, to the first suggestion he made, and after stringing the corset up to make sure it was a snug fit, she left. No instructions, no haggling, no complaining - nothing.

 

This day was not a good day for shopping. This day was not a good day for details. This day was not a good day to be Bulma Briefs.

 

After the hire of her costume, Bulma popped into the chemists, but not before wrapping her face tightly in a scarf and sliding on a dark pair of sunglasses. Prying eyes, gossip queens, and camera lenses, didn't need to know what she was doing - especially if it turned out to be a false alarm - and a quick anonymous visit to buy the test seemed her surest way of keeping the secret safe.

 

Of course, now she had the white strip of plastic in front of her - the blinding cerise line confirming all her worst fears - she knew it wasn't going to be her secret for long. Whatever action she took from this point on, one person at least was going to find out.

 

Her mind, however, was already made up - had been the moment suspicion crept in. Her heart might squeeze and pine under the decision, but her head ruled the roost. The timing was all wrong! She was supposed to be married, she was supposed to love the father, and she was supposed to be happy about it. She wasn't any.

 

Then there was the scandal to think about. Bulma Briefs couldn't sneeze without the world knowing - how was she going to hide having a baby? Maybe if it happened a year down the line, when she was well-established as CEO, and with her trial period in both the social and business circles long expired, then maybe she could smooth over affronts of this nature in her own popularity, but not now. No - she wasn't ready - her whole life wasn't ready.

 

She looked down at her cell phone. The East-Side telephone number was flashed in red across the screen, and Bulma wondered if this time she would be able to muster enough courage to press the call button. Dr. Ling would help her. He was the doctor to all Western Capitol high society, and he could be relied on to keep anything of this nature hush-hush. One call, just one call and she could arrange an appointment to make it all go away.

 

Bulma ran a nervous hand through her hair. Her palms were sweaty and her heart was racing. She closed her eyes. “Just one call,” she reasoned out loud, and with her confidence high, she dialled.

 

It rang four, maybe five times before the secretary answered. “Hello, East-Side Surgery, how can I help?”

 

Bulma's mouth went dry. She tried to form words but her brain flailed and didn't come up with any intelligible response.

 

“Hello, is anyone there?”

 

Bulma swallowed hard. “Hi.”

 

“Hi there, how can I help?”

 

“I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Ling please.”

 

“Of course. What time and day would be convenient for you?”

 

“Any time and as soon as possible.”

 

“Okay, we have a cancellation at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. Would that be suitable?”

 

“Yes, that's fine.”

 

There was a moment's silence on the other end, punctuated by the tapping of a keyboard.

 

“May I take your name please?”

 

“Miss Briefs.”

 

“And what is the nature of your complaint?”

 

Bulma lost her voice for the second time. Her heart thumped as she tried to speak. Saying the words out loud . . . it would confirm the truth . . . she wasn't ready.

 

“Miss Briefs? Are you still there?”

 

“Yes, I'm sorry. It's a private matter. I'd rather only discuss it with Dr. Ling if that's okay.”

 

“That's perfectly fine. We'll see you at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.”

 

“Thanks,” Bulma replied. “Bye.”

 

With a long deep breath she snapped her phone shut and sunk into her bed. She felt completely drained but surprisingly emotionless, just the way she had all day - ever since she found out she was pregnant. Oh god! She was pregnant! And with Vegeta's child - Vegeta's! How was it possible?

 

Okay… she knew how, could remember very distinctly how, and it only sufficed to make her pride take a fall. What was going to happen now? How did people deal with situations like this, and more importantly, would she ever be able to live with her decision?

 

She took a couple of calming breaths, deeply through the nose and out through the mouth. Women did this every day and with less justification. She was doing the right thing. In the long run it would be the best for all concerned. She wasn't ready for a family. Vegeta, well, Vegeta would probably never be ready or able to be a parent and as a result the child would be the one to suffer. No. This wasn't a selfish decision. Bulma had a very good reason to go through with a termination. A very good reason. She wasn't being selfish!

 

Was she?

 

She groaned and rolled onto her side, catching a glimpse of the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was five-thirty. She must have called the surgery just before it closed. Her mind was so preoccupied she didn't even think whether it would be out of hours.

 

“Bulma?”

 

Her mother's voice filtered down the corridor with the soft and tranquil tone it always held. Bulma panicked. She still had her test on the bed sheets. There wasn't time to doing anything more than shove the device under her pillow.

 

“In here, Mum,” Bulma answered just as Mrs. Briefs stuck her head around the corner.

 

“Well, look at you!” she tittered. “You look as though you've walked straight out from the pages of a classic novel.” Mrs. Briefs curtseyed. “Should I call you Marguerite St. Just or Sophia Western?”

 

Bulma smiled for the first time that day. “That would make Yamcha either The Scarlet Pimpernel or Tom Jones. That's a tough decision . . . I think I'll take both.”

 

“Oh yes, every heroine needs a good hero.” Mrs. Briefs smiled. “But no one's going to be swept of their feet by being `just good friends' are they?”

 

“Mum! Not this again!”

 

“Well.” She fluttered her eyelashes - the picture of innocence. “Aren't you and Yamcha going on a date?”

 

“It's not a date. We've both been feeling down recently and he decided we needed a lift. Nothing's changed, Mum. The past is in the past. Tonight is about moving on and discovering what the future holds for us both.”

 

Mrs. Briefs raised a neatly plucked eyebrow.

 

“A future as two individual, completely separate people!” Bulma stressed.

 

“You mean your future as a dried up old maid, rotting and wasting away in an office or laboratory until you're too old to give me a grandchild?”

 

“Thanks, Mum, I love you too.”

 

“Oh,” she said, fussing with the ribbons on the back of Bulma's dress and pulling them tighter for good measure. “You know I'm only playing with you, but wouldn't it be nice to have a baby in the house. A new little precious gift for the family, and someone who can follow the good work you and your father do. It will be a shame for the business to go out of family hands.”

 

“I really hadn't thought that far ahead, Mum, I only just took over as CEO myself. But really, I'm not all that adverse to the idea of becoming a mother.” Bulma's voice strained a bit under the effort to keep deeper feelings hidden. “But it has to be for the right reasons and under the right circumstances. I couldn't imagine having a child without a good solid family support system in place.”

 

“And what are your father and I, chopped liver?”

 

“That's not what I meant, Mum. I'm a grown-up and an independent woman now. I've put too much on you and Dad in the past as it is. I don't want to do it any more” She swallowed hard, for the first time feeling tears rise in her eyes.

 

Mrs. Briefs raised a dismissive hand. “You can't put on us when we'll enjoy the experience just as much as you will.”

 

“I guess not, but a baby is a big responsibility. It wouldn't be right or fair for the child to grow up without a father around - a father that we can both love unconditionally and who would love us both back the same way.” One tear escaped and she blinked it away. “I don't love Yamcha that way. And if I can't love Yamcha that way then I don't know if I will ever be able to love anyone that way . . .especially not---”

 

Bulma stopped herself just in time, a good thing as it turned out. Her mum was hanging on her every word.

 

“Especially not . . .?” she encouraged.

 

Bulma shook her head. “It doesn't matter.” She moved off the bed and surreptitiously wiped her tear away.

 

“Doesn't matter?” Mrs Briefs pried. “Oh Bulma! Is there another man in your life? Have you been holding out on me?”

 

Bulma stopped, the truth ringing powerfully in her ears. She couldn't ignore it. Her body language must have already given her away. “There was someone briefly,” Bulma admitted, prepared to be as vague as she could, “but it wasn't serious and didn't work out. Yamcha's taking me out to cheer me up. Please, Mum, I'm feeling down today, and I really don't want to talk about it.”

 

“I understand.” Mrs. Briefs patted her daughter on the shoulder. “We'll talk about it more just as soon as you're ready.”

 

“Thank you.” Bulma smiled and gave her a long hug. “I appreciate it.”

 

The hug naturally waned and Bulma perked up a bit. “Now we've got that out of the way,” she said. “It just so happens that I need your advice on something really important.”

 

“You do?”

 

Bulma turned around and displayed two tubs of lip-gloss, a wide forced smile. “What do you think will go best? Burnt umber or Devil red?”

 

The rest of the conversation was completely forgotten. The cosmetic trivialities Mrs. Briefs delighted in took precedence, and the older lady rushed to her daughter's side. “Did I teach you nothing!” she exclaimed. “Brown… with red satin and lace… honestly!” She clucked on in a similar manner, helping Bulma with her makeup and layering the white face powder to complete the effect. After this she continuously bustled in and out of the bedroom in order to find the perfect accessories for the elaborate outfit.

 

In this busy, but comfortingly normal way, Bulma lost over an hour. At some point all conversation died, and for the remaining time, staring at her hands and her vision wavering, Bulma's brain tried to die with it. In normal times of crisis this would be the time her mind shone its brightest. Crisis, pressure, and her ability to rationalize and work through both gave her the title of `genius' in scientific circles. Where was that biting edge today? Why couldn't she think her way passed this?

 

Not long after, Bulma was roused as twin headlights spun abstract shadows across the length of her room. The hairs on her arms pricked up in a familiar way and were accompanied by a feeling of general comfort and protection. Yamcha had just arrived.

 

Forced into action again, she pulled herself up from the bed, adjusted the position of her wig, secured it with more grips than necessary, and then left the room. She walked calmly down the stairs with enough presence of mind to at least be curious of how Yamcha might be dressed for the evening.

 

By the time she made it down two flights of stairs, the door was already answered, and Bulma could hear both her father's and Yamcha's voices emanating from the den.

 

She closed her eyes and hardened herself to the memories the den created. Since Vegeta left, if she could avoid going in there, she would. She knew it was silly, but so much of the Saiyan still remained there, so much of the two of them together. From the way he had claimed it and the decking outside as his, and the relaxing of that rule for her alone. To the evenings not easily gained, and the conversation coerced out by months of ignoring each other, the majority of it had occurred there. One of the few places on her planet he had felt comfortable in - comfortable with her.

 

Her feet stopped at the entrance - unwilling to go in. Instead she turned away. Her heels clicked on the marble floor and took her away to the grand entrance hall before either Yamcha or her father had the chance to see her in the doorway.

 

Once there, she calmed her breathing and pulse. This was getting beyond a joke. She knew things were starting to get really screwed up and explaining and exploring the dangers her own body created would only make them worse. “You know,” she shouted, tapping her foot, and tamping her feelings down with it. “It's rude to keep a lady waiting.”

 

Yamcha laughed. She could hear the rich tones floating through and echoing into the hall. She had no doubt he wanted her to hear. “Thanks,” he called back, “I'll remember that next time I visit one.”

 

Oh boy! He was asking for trouble. “Let me put this another way,” she corrected, pulling her shoulders back and pushing her chest out. “If your worthless arse isn't here and ushering me out to the car in the next ten seconds then you're paying for the whole evening!”

 

The killer blow delivered, Yamcha was at her side like a shot. “That was uncalled for,” he pouted.

 

“Ditto,” she agreed, and hugged him tight. “It's good to see you.” Then she pushed him back and looked him up and down. “Whoa!”

 

“Will I do, My Lady?” he asked, saluting and then flourishing into a bow.

 

Having forgone the duty of wearing a mask, it looked as if Yamcha's disguise consisted of the entire Maybelline collection. A thick line of black eye makeup ran from one temple to the other. It covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose in a straight line. This was accompanied by eyeliner, blush, and lipstick as bright and sparkly as hers. His outfit consisted of swashbuckling valour. Thick leather trousers clung to his thighs, held up by a belt with an abnormally large and silvered buckle. As her eyes roved upwards she noted the black shirt billowing out from a gold embroidered waistcoat. The shirt was bound by a buckle on the upper arm of one sleeve and was slightly ripped at the other. Combine this with his hair, tied in knots close to his head and adorned with ribbon and feathers, then you had yourself a living breathing New Romantic.

 

“Oh dear god!” she laughed, stepping back once more and looking down at her own dress. “We look like we've just been in an Adam Ant video!”

 

He laughed along with her, jumped over her head and landed on the conical carving at the end of the banister. Once there he struck a dramatic pose. “Stand and deliver!” he crooned. “Your money or your life!”

 

Bulma put a hand over her face and walked quickly towards the door. “Death won't come quick enough,” she joked. “Now get a wriggle on before I either kick your arse or pee myself laughing.” She turned and flashed him a wicked smile. “Come on, Mr. Ant, it's way overdue time to get drunk.” And with that they both strolled out of the front door and hopped into Yamcha's waiting aircar.

 

The evening progressed as comfortably as both hoped it would. Alcohol might not be the best solution to their problems, but neither of them cared. For this one night they were only out for one reason and that was to have fun. The two of them talked for hours, and danced for even longer. They didn't go to the fancy dress party right away, but rather did a long pub crawl along Western City High Street, up passed the old concert halls, galleries, and finally onto Fifth Street. The most recently regenerated part of the city. Not long ago this area had been one of the worst in the city, run down, neglected, and a general eyesore in what was otherwise a very neat and modern layout.

 

A few years ago the city council had put together a plan to rejuvenate the area, and several large companies were called upon to donate to the cause. Capsule Corporation was one of the prime investors, and the plans were so well executed that Bulma was forecasting profit from the arrangement in a little over three years time. Not bad for a project that neither she nor the council had envisioned breaking even. This area really was the new city centre now. The newspapers called it `cosmopolitan,' but any stretch of the city could be dubbed that way by the press so long as it had good public toilet facilities and a Starbucks. Bulma couldn't resist temptation, and all the way down, balanced on Yamcha's arm, she pointed to specific buildings, saying, “I own that one.”

 

He laughed along with her, nothing blighting his good humour. “Are there any down here you don't own?” he asked.

 

Bulma's vision was swimming by this point, and she squinted to tell the buildings apart. “I don't own that,” she giggled giving up on being serious altogether and pointing to a palm tree centrepiece in the middle of the pedestrianized road.

 

“And the monkeys are thankful,” he quipped, pointing to the metallic sculptures circling the base.

 

Bulma contemplated the scene and sighed. “Vegeta was a monkey.”

 

“Okay,” Yamcha said, rolling his eyes. “That was dangerously close to unfun. Come on, we need to top you up before you start telling me all the disgusting details.”

 

“Hey, I'll have you know the sex with Vegeta was far from disgusting!”

 

“For you I'm sure it was wonderful, but I'm pretty sure it won't do anything for me.”

 

Bulma walked on a little way and was surprised when Yamcha didn't follow her. “Hey, Yamcha, keep up the pace!”

 

He didn't move and Bulma was forced to walk back up to him. He seemed transfixed by a point the other side of the palm tree.

 

“Yamcha?” she asked, waving a hand in front of his face. “You're spacing out. What's wrong?”

 

He let out a long breath and caught Bulma's wrist. “There,” he said, pointing her arm in the direction he was staring. “It's her.”

 

“Her?” Bulma looked again. This time she focused on a specific object, a petite woman standing in the queue they were about to join. She had shoulder length black hair, a perfect hourglass figure, and was strapped up in black PVC. The detail in the eared mask and long fluffy tail suggested she was supposed to be Catwoman. Bulma couldn't deny she was very pretty. She wasn't the kind of woman Yamcha was usually seen with after their split. This woman was elegant, beautifully proportioned, and though not stunning, she was a far cry from the bleach blonde pin-ups he usually escorted around. If the difference could be summed up quickly then the first thing she realized in this girl was that she had class, and heaps of it.

 

“Who is she?” Bulma asked, touching him gently on the arm, a pang of something unidentifiable in her chest.

 

Yamcha swallowed. The skin around his cheeks was pinking into a blush, and he suddenly looked unsure of himself, something completely out of character for her dear friend. Almost instantly he turned away and took Bulma's arm, even though he appeared unsteadier than she was, and marched her away.

 

“Yamcha?” she tried again.

 

“Kiko,” he admitted a safe distance away. “The girl you saw dressed as Catwoman. It was Kiko.”

 

It didn't take Bulma long to place the name. “Oh,” was all she could say.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How did things end with you two?” she asked. “You never did tell me.”

 

Under those short words his whole attitude seemed to change. “It went badly, okay?” he snapped. “Now I'm sure you don't want me talking about her any more than I want you talking about Vegeta. This is our night, our fun, we mustn't distract ourselves from the bigger picture. Tonight is about moving on, not living in the past and what could have been.”

 

“Hey!” she shouted, indignant. “There's no need to talk to me like that. I'm not a child.”

 

“I'm sorry,” he said, briskly walking away. “I know this isn't what we had planned but I can't face her right now. I can't deal with it. We're going somewhere else.”

 

Bulma ran in front of him and cut off his exit. “That's bullshit and you know it. How are either of us going to move on if we don't resolve what has happened in our past. I,” she sighed and looked to the floor. “I have no way of resolving things with Vegeta, and believe me, right now I have more good reason to want to do that than I'd care to admit, even to you, but I can't! Vegeta is - God! I haven't got a clue where Vegeta is. He's light-years away from me. Kiko, on the other hand, is right over there.” She smiled, an effort when her heart was aching so badly. “Do you really want things to stay sour between the two of you when she's right here and you have the chance to make a difference?”

 

Yamcha looked divided. Bulma knew he wanted to go over to her, but something was holding him back - something bigger than his desire.

 

“Go to her,” Bulma encouraged.

 

Yamcha sighed and flopped down to sit on a wooden bench. Bulma pulled up her petticoats and awkwardly sat down next to him.

 

“How?” he said, somewhat quietly, his voice shaking. “How am I supposed to go over there and make everything right when nothing's changed.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face.

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“I know,” he soothed. “I know you don't.”

 

“Then explain it to me, Yamcha. You've been there for me when I've needed you. You've given me good, sensible advice when I've asked for it. It's my turn now. If there's anything I can help you with, anything you want my advice on, then I'm here, right here, ready and willing to listen.”

 

He turned to face her, a light smile on his lips, but which was pained by something much deeper.

 

“Maybe you can help me, Bulma,” he admitted. “Maybe you can tell me what I'm supposed to tell Kiko when my heart is still as unsure about this whole situation as it was back then?”

 

His eyes met with hers. Emotion overflowed from them for her and then for the whole world to see. “How can I resolve things with Kiko when I still think I love someone else more.”

 

Completely stupefied, Bulma couldn't find an answer.

 

“I told you I still loved you,” Yamcha said, stroking her face, and rubbing his thumb along the line of her cheek. “I wasn't making it up. I need to know,” he said moving closer and opening his arms for her. “I want to know once and for all that we're doing the right thing. That there isn't something left from us we can still salvage.”

 

“Yamcha I---”

 

Bulma wasn't able to finish. Yamcha's lips were suddenly on hers, hot, passionate, pleading and trying to force her to respond. Any words her mind might have arranged were instantly scattered. All meaning was lost and before she knew what was happening her lips started to move automatically with his, just as curious and just as exploring.

 

Their last proper kiss, their last romantic kiss, it was so long ago, yet so familiar on her lips. Now she was being forcefully reminded of the love and connection they once shared. It felt comfortable, it felt safe, it was wonderful! Correction - it would have been wonderful if she were the same person she was back then. Back then when her life was simple, when her goals were clear, when her heart was free and master of its own direction.

 

The kiss was good, it was passionate, loving, but it wasn't right. It didn't heat her blood, set her heart racing, or her belly on fire. And for the first time she realized, all she could do while Yamcha's lips were on her, was wish they were Vegeta's. She wished it were his tongue swirling with hers, his arms holding her close, and his scent she could smell so close to his skin.

 

Vegeta could bring heat to her without even touching her, let alone sharing such an intimate gesture as a kiss. Vegeta could make her wet just by talking. Yamcha was never able to do that. Yamcha wasn't the man she wanted, not anymore.

 

Life was cruel; she loved Yamcha with all her heart, but he didn't arouse her. Vegeta aroused her, but she didn't love him with all her heart. It was a sick joke, and right about then she wished there was some way to take what she wanted from both of them.

 

The kiss ended. Yamcha held her close and panted breathlessly in her ear. He was shaking, and Bulma was sure she was too. They had tried for so long, and they had tried so hard. This was something Bulma faced up to a long time ago, for all the love they shared, they weren't destined to be together. It wasn't meant to be. She just hoped that now, after receiving a kiss to confirm it, Yamcha would feel the same way.

 

“Well?” she asked.

 

“Well,” he replied, holding onto her tighter than ever. “It sure brought back a lot of memories.”

 

Bulma laughed nervously. “Yes… yes, it did.”

 

“What did you think about it?” he asked, determined to put her on the spot.

 

“I thought,” she said, after a short deliberation on how to word it. “I thought that it was very . . . nice. And you?”

 

“You're right,” he said. “It was nice, but . . . .”

 

Bulma released a huge sigh. “It wasn't right, was it?”

 

“No,” he replied slowly, the true significance of the situation finally sinking in. “It wasn't.”

 

“So, what are you going to do now?”

 

He looked completely lost. “I have no idea.”

 

She smiled and took him by the arm. With an ease that was beyond her, she walked him over to the queue and gestured in Kiko's direction. “Go talk to her.”

 

He hung back, not all his doubts removed. “I won't know what to say,” he protested as she ushered him forward.

 

“Yes, you will. If you want something bad enough then you'll find a way to make it work. I promise.”

 

“But I promised you . . . our evening of fun . . . ?”

 

She smiled and patted him reassuringly on the back. “It's okay; drinks at my house next week. We'll have a nice relaxing day by the pool, maybe crack open the barbeque and talk about old times, just like we used to. It's okay. I don't mind. Some things are way more important.” She winked and pushed him forward. “Now go get her before it's too late.”

 

“But---”

 

“Go!” she demanded.

 

“Bulma . . .” he said, but for some reason he couldn't continue. All he did was a place a quick kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.” He smiled one of the most breathtaking smiles she had ever seen from him. “Thank you for everything.” Then he was gone, lost in the crowd with only a salute in goodbye and a shouted, “Call me!” barely audible amongst the crowds now gathered.

 

Bulma shivered - the lack of his presence suddenly very noticeable in a drop of temperature. She looked wistfully in his direction for long enough to see him awkwardly introduce himself to Kiko, and then she turned away. Her heart was torn. She was very happy her friend was finally realizing what he could have if only he reached out for it, but it was equally sad for the parallel it drew to her own situation. Yamcha wasn't the only one the kiss re-educated, and Bulma's heart felt like it was slowing down to a stop.

 

She suddenly felt very lost, sober, and inexplicably lonely. Her hands reached down to the front of her dress and rested on her stomach. For the first time since reading the test she wondered what it would be like to have the child of a man she couldn't love as much as she wanted to, a man who wouldn't love her the way she wanted to be loved. For the first time since taking the test she couldn't control her emotions . . . and for the first time since taking the test she cried openly.

 

Endless late-night revellers walked by. One man stopped, thought about asking her if she was okay, but was pulled back into the crowd by a member of his own party. The majority merely raised an eyebrow and hurried past.

 

Oblivious to her performance, Bulma cried on.

 

 

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A/N - *Hides* Talk of termination, Yamcha and Bulma kissing. Oh boy! ^-^;; Please don't kill me. If I'm still alive, I'll see you all soon for the next chapter.

 

Huge thanks to LisaB for beta-ing.