Page 103 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Esmeralda, get help,’ whispered Mort.
Esmeralda gave him a slinky look, then launched a leg over her head and started washing her butt.
But then, disaster. Mort’s foot slipped, and he fell forward, his body stretched out between the two railings like some poorprisoner on a torture chamber rack. A family of doves indignantly burst up, flapping at his face and creating a commotion that threatened Mort’s balance quite significantly.
Mort might have howled, just a bit.
The shutters flew open, revealing Lily, clad in a … motorcycle helmet.
Lily flipped up the visor of said helmet, revealing concerned but also extremely amused eyes.
‘Mort! What on earth are you doing? Are you finally participating in the planking trend of 2011?’
‘You’re alive!’ gasped Mort, almost relaxing his grasp in his relief.
‘Oh shit, don’t fall!’ Lily reached for his hand. ‘Do you trust me?’ she asked.
Mort swallowed. The ground below was vertiginously far away. ‘I trust you.’
‘Then grab my arm.’ Lily’s nails gleamed as she slid her hand down his wrist until her fingers clasped around the meat of his forearm. Mort wrapped his fingers around her arm, gingerly, afraid he’d break her. ‘Oh comeon, Mort. I get my calcium. You’re not going to snap my bones.’
Mort increased his grip.
‘There’s a guy who’s eaten his Cheerios.’ Grip tight on his arm, Lily lunged forward to wrap her arm around his chest. ‘On the count of three, I’m going to pull you towards me, like I’m dragging a puppy from the mouth of an alligator.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel better.’
‘I could let you fall to your death?’
‘We’re not doing that. Three it is.’
Lily’s eyes sparkled from within her motorbike helmet. Why on earth was she wearing that? Was she planning a trip down the highway? Was sheleaving? The very thought made Mort’sstomach clench. Well, it would’ve clenched, had he not been stretched to the full extent of his height.
‘One. Two.Three.’
Lily hauled, and Mort unlatched his shoes from the other balcony. With an awkward, bruising slither, he landed on the rose-patterned tiling of Lily’s terrace, crumpling like a dead spider. But not dead. Not dead at all, he thought, staring up at Lily’s bright blue eyes, which were crinkled at their corners the way they always were when he’d done something silly, which apparently was often.
‘Mort. Tell me this instant why you were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil on my terrace.’
‘I thought you were dying,’ gasped Mort, who was winded both physically and spiritually. ‘Angela and Tink said that you were on your deathbed. That this was a plague house. They started singing “Ring a Ring a Rosie”.’
Lily covered her eyes with her hands. Then, splaying her fingers slightly, she peeked through them.
‘Mort,’ she said through her helmet. ‘It’s just a cold sore. Not deadly. Not even debilitating. Just … gross.’
Mort groaned. ‘I climbed a balcony to rescue you from a cold sore?’
Lily chuckled. ‘Mort, my love, nothing can rescue me from the clutches of HSV1. We just need to wait for time to work her magic. Now, do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Will you take off the helmet?’ he asked curiously.
‘Never,’ she said, putting down the visor.
Say Yes to the Hearse
Lily
It was a week until Lily was ready to emerge from the plague house, and by then she was dying for social interaction. She’d had to turn away her usual cake-seeking visitors, and she’d been strictly camera off during her client calls (and even with Mom, who could go on for hours about cold sore remedies if you gave her the chance). At least she’d been able to chitchat with Mort through the grille, which was crucial, given that the two of them had big plans together. Big plans for Gramps’s place, at least. After extensive discussions with all involved (and some mood boarding on Lily’s part), the Gramps housing situation had been sorted. The solution? Roommates.
