Page 111 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
A Matter of Love or Death
Mort
Mort had heard it all through the grille that separated the two Eternal Elegances. OfcourseLily wasn’t going to stay. Why would she, when she could take an astonishingly well-paying job with Venus, a role which presumably came with a lifetime of helicopter rides, hand-me-down sports cars and a subscription to each of the several dozen magazines that kept ending up on Mort’s doorstep instead of Lily’s?
Like this one coming through the letterbox flap right now: the latest edition ofThe Gown, featuring … hang on, featuringLilyon the front?
Mort flipped open the magazine to the cover story, which was a glowing review of Lily’s business that spoke to her passion, ingenuity and ability to create a unique event around any theme, no matter how avant-garde. (And her singledom, but only twice, which seemed generous from what he’d overheard from the whole Coriana interview.)
Lily Ellis is a sunny addition to Mirage-by-the-Sea – and to the wedding world, concluded the article.You’d be mad to let her pass you by.
‘It’s Lily!’ cried Stribley, who along with the other Grief Guys was seated in the parlour, eating cake and discussingGramps’s incredible snoring volume. ‘Oh, but she’s a good one, isn’t she?’
‘The best,’ said Mort slowly, staring down at the photo of Lily, all windswept curls and twinkling blue eyes.
He couldn’t bear the thought of life without Lily. Of going a day without seeing her brilliant smile and her fantastically bright outfits and the endless array of costumes she kept on hand for the poodle statues. Of not being able to chat with her through the grille. Of her cheerful shop being overtaken by a dry cleaner or a dentist or a weed dispensary. (Although Angela, now that she didn’t have Gramps’s lodging to worry about, had mysteriously assured him she was working on this.)
‘What are you doing, lad?’ asked Orson incredulously, around a bite of tiered black funeral cake (a new local trend). ‘Go on. Fight for her.’
‘Not literally,’ added Stribley, jabbing with his cake fork. ‘Use your words.’
‘But give your hair a once-over first.’ Duggo proffered the dog brush he kept in his pocket.
Sausage wagged his tail, adding his two cents to the mix.
Mort swiped his hands through his hair and straightened his tie.
‘At least you’re wearing your best cufflinks,’ pointed out Orson. Mort was: the coffin ones Lily called his ‘coffcuffs’, which she said were better, by a smidge, than the ones that Reba had given him at Venus’s wedding, dubbing them the ‘fisticuffs’. (These were an anti-capitalist set that involved a hand punching up. Reba had made them from the melted-down badge of a police officer.)
Squaring his shoulders, Mort shoved open the front door to Eternal Elegance. A woman in black stood there, trying in vainto mop at her smudgy eye makeup beneath the lace mourning veil she wore.
Mort sighed in exasperation. What was with all this death? Why was it so inconvenient? Why hadn’t Gramps franchised this bloody place if it was in such high demand?
‘Sorry, not now. Death can be patient, but love waits for no man. Here, run down to The Hot Pot and grab a cup of tea. That’ll get you twenty per cent off.’
He thrust a coupon at the woman, then pausing only to rub the noses of the poodle statues for good luck, he hurried over to the pagoda, where Lily stood in head-to-toe yellow, clutching a pink duffel bag as though it held the meaning of life. A fluffy pink skateboarding buffalo keyring gleamed as it swung back and forth.
‘Lily, you can’t. Don’t go.’
Lily turned in surprise. The peeping sun caught her eyes, highlighting the flecks of green that hid within the bright blue. Mort couldn’t bear the thought of never looking into them again.
‘Why not?’ she said, sounding bewildered.
‘Because I need you here, with me. We all do.’
Mort stepped forward, touching his hand to the warmth of her cheek. The soft skin took on an additional flush under his touch. Mort never wanted to break contact, not ever. He wanted to frame her face with his hands and kiss her until he felt dizzy from lack of oxygen, until he felt weak at the knees from the pounding of his heart.
All he wanted was Lily. Lily, who brightened every single moment – even the darkest ones. Who somehow understood his wayward sense of humour and who took his preoccupation with death in stride. Lily, who toted Esmeralda around on her hip and finished jigsaw puzzles with Gramps and who invented silly Gutenberg drinking games for her friends, and who happilyintroduced herself to every stranger making the winding trek around the heart of the village. Lily, who was so unflappably funny, and so intensely kind, and so thoughtful and creative and fiery and passionate. Lily, who was so perfectly Lily, and so perfect for Mort.
Mort wanted to sit with her through the end of every movie she’d never finished, to help her tend the garden beds out front she was so worried she’d kill, to stand by her side throwing every coin he could find into the fountain at the Spanish mission, that maybe, just maybe, might play a part in their future. He wanted to see it all through with her. Every damn moment.
Mort pulled the funeral home’s treasure map stamp out from his back pocket.
‘You give me life,’ he said, the words catching in his throat. He’d never before spoken with more meaning, with more heart, and from the tiny crinkles at the corners of Lily’s eyes he could see that she felt it as well.
And as she passed him her well-thumbed treasure map for him to add that final stamp, he added, earnestly, passionately: ‘You make me feel alive.’
And Many Happy Returns
