Page 43 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Offline. Incognito. Away from the public eye.’
‘Yes, I assumed you weren’t just saying she’d dyed her hair.’ Mort slumped in his chair, fiddling with the crossbone studs that stamped the leather to the wood beneath (at least thosehadn’t been switcherooed, or he would’ve been spending the day digging up the receipt to demand a refund). ‘So chances are we’re stuck like this for a while, huh. Opposite Day land. Well, fuck.’
Images of increasingly unhinged obituaries and dancing on freshly filled graves swirled through Mort’s head. And just what did the switcheroo have planned for those confetti cannons?
‘Well fuck indeed,’ said Lily. ‘Because while the goths might take this whole thing in stride, Venus sure as hell won’t.’
‘She’s not as laid-back as her PR team would have us believe, huh?’ asked Mort. ‘Imagine that.’
‘And then there’s my mom! I’ve been sending her strategic close-ups of my decor, but there’s going to be a point where she demands a video call, and what then?’
‘You could take it outside. By the bougainvillea.’
‘What if Zoom applies a switcheroo filter? We don’t know how deep this thing goes!’
‘I take it your mom isn’t big on doom and gloom?’
Lily shook her head, then affected the deep, gravelly voice of the film preview voiceover guy. ‘In a world … of toxic positivity,’ she intoned.
‘Ah. Understood.’
Lily scooped up her jelly bean flower and ate it. ‘So, while I’m here. How much for a couple of coffins? The goths registered for a his and hers number.’
Mort raised an eyebrow. ‘Thinking ahead, I see. Definitely a better investment than an ice-cream maker.’
‘Don’t besmirch the humble ice-cream maker. Truly. It’s a solid twenty-dollar gift for someone you don’t really know or like. And if ice-cream isn’t your thing, you can always throw it at someone. They’re quite heavy. And come with a vicious blade.’
‘You sound like you have first-hand experience with this.’Mort led Lily to the coffin display. Well, coffin/bunkbed display, which was proving very difficult to explain to his clients.
‘Wow,’ said Lily. ‘Is this a switcheroo thing, or are you exploring space-saving burial options for our overcrowded future? Because the goths also want plots for their dogs.’
Mort considered. ‘How big are we talking?’
‘Pugs.’
‘Oh, thank God, I thought you were going to say a Great Dane. I’ll throw in a pug plot gratis.’
‘Two pug plots.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, but I can’t say no to a wrinkly face.’
Lily set her hands akimbo. ‘You’d better be talking about me, because I will not have you slandering our puggy friends.’
Mort couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Of course, of course. Lucky for you, there’s a botulism voucher in that Chamber of Commerce treasure map of yours. Just be careful, because itisa neurotoxin.’
‘At least if you have to embalm me, I’ll be a perfectly blank canvas. You can pancake me up in a single swipe. Now help me up this ladder so I can check out these coffins.’
Not a Mourning Person
Lily
Friday the 13th rolled around with all the usual social media fanfare and quippy menu items and sales. And why not? The date was a solid excuse for a miniature Halloween, and who didn’t love an excuse to give their costume a trial run?
At least Lily had all day to finalise the plans. Which were extensive. Channelling her inner goth took a good deal of work. Honestly,findingher inner goth had been a large part of it; Lily had been one of the few kids in her class who had skipped the phase, opting for an ethereal theatre kid vibe instead. Hand pressed to her forehead, she’d swanned around in full-length pastel gowns, climbing every balcony in sight and sighing theatrically. She’d promptly discarded the affectation when the hem of one of her gowns had caught on the non-slip tread on a step, leaving her half-naked above a major road during peak-hour traffic. The police had arrived, worried for her safety. And her pride.
Still scarred from the experience, which (along with her bare butt) had made the local news, Lily had opted for a three-quarter LBD with bell sleeves that doubled as pockets. (Said sleeves had a handy drawstring in case she needed to reel them in to avoid a repeat of the stair-catching situation.)
She felt incredibly underdressed next to Desdemona, who wore a majestic velvet and tulle mermaid gown and stacked boots so tall that she could conceivably dunk a basketball without having to leave the ground. (Alexander McQueen would have been proud, and perhaps a little scared.) The bride’s eyes were sharp with expertly executed liner, and her lips were a matte black so deep that they swallowed stars. Briony, the event photographer, spun around Desdemona with a massive camera on a gimbal. Briony was a thin, austere-looking individual who looked as though she’d come off the set for a film steeped in German Expressionism. (This was because she actually had – it turned out that Desdemona was an esteemed independent film director, and Briony was her director of photography. Tonight’s wedding was in part supported by a film grant, and would air at Rerunning Up That Hill in a few weeks’ time, with piano improvisation provided by Mort.)
