Page 82 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily blinked.
‘It’s kind of a personal crusade with her,’ whispered Gracie. ‘Her husband Frank died on their wedding night.’
‘Second wedding night,’ corrected Reba. ‘But the moral still stands.’
As the Kombi puttered around the cresting hills and coasting valleys of the farmland that surrounded Mirage-by-the-Sea, Lily realised they weren’t far from Gramps’s place. There it was: the gothic Victorian with its rickety chimneys and dark foliage. Although the lawn was looking good today. Hang on – was that Mort’s hearse?
‘Pull in here,’ she told Reba. ‘Just for a second.’
As the Kombi rolled up, Sausage raced towards them, barking valiantly in between awkwardly standing on his ears. It looked like the Grief Guys were here.
‘Hey, Lily.’ Orson stood, rubbing his back. He held a weeding tool, and was surrounded by the corpses of dandelions. ‘Looking for Mort? Mort! Hey, Mort!’
‘Here.’ Reba leaned on the Kombi’s horn, startling a family of squirrels.
Mort came over, looking deliciously scruffy with hisshirtsleeves rolled up and his hair mussed as usual. He pulled down the pair of Ray-Bans he was wearing. ‘Lily? How did you find a worse vehicle than the Miata?’
‘How do you feel about being a plus-one?’ shouted Reba.
Lily hid her face behind her hand. ‘We could do with the extra help, if the Grief Guys aren’t too busy here?’
‘We’re coming back tomorrow,’ said Duggo, who’d appeared on the porch with Stribley. ‘This place has years’ worth of work to do on it. But I’m up for a wedding, if you are, Stribs?’
‘What about Gramps?’ asked Lily. ‘He’s welcome, too.’
‘I’ve got a date with a jigsaw,’ shouted Gramps from the front door. ‘I just found where your sky bit fits with the edge pieces, Lily! I’m a roll, and I can’t stop now!’
‘Come on, hop in,’ called Reba. ‘The dog’s welcome, too. If he doesn’t mind some cat hair. My Ember sheds like you wouldn’t believe.’
The Grief Guys piled in, and off they went, coasting along on the plaintive strains of Jerry Garcia’s vocals.
‘It’s no Woodstock, but it’s close. And probably with a bigger budget,’ said Reba, as they pulled up to the event site, a vast estate zoned as farmland for the tax breaks. But today at least it was a spot for hippie glamping, and Reba had been busy tie-dyeing every inch of its fifty-acre footprint. Dozens of personal tents swept out like rainbow fractals from a central clearing demarcated by astonishing floral arrangements that emerged naturally (and expensively) from the ground. Beanbags had been carefully lined up in angled rows around the ceremonial arch, and a variety of stations offered all the booze and entertainment you could dream of. Even the Portaloos – which were more like portable, multi-stall bathrooms – were a work of (hand-painted) art.
‘I hear that from a helicopter’s-eye-view it looks like a verytrippy crop circle,’ said Lily, waving hello to the lighting guy who was busy stringing Moroccan lanterns from the sculpted trees.
‘Ooh,’ said Duggo, holding Sausage up to the window so the short-legged dog could get a better view. ‘How do we get a peek from all the way up there?’
‘Be born rich,’ said Orson. ‘Unless there are drones. Are there drones?’
‘I don’t do drones.’ Gracie tapped her camera. ‘I’m strictly analogue.’
‘I could hook you up.’ Orson dug around in his overall pockets for a business card. (The one he produced looked lightly electrocuted.) ‘I do AV of all sorts.’
‘Thanks, but I have a vision.’
Oh, to have that facility for shutting down men when they tried to turn you around to their ways of doing things. Lily had suffered through plenty of girls’ nights that were suddenly gate-crashed by guys who couldn’t fathom that a night out could be complete without a dose of testosterone. A confident Gracie-style ‘fuck off’ would’ve gone a long way.
‘And out we get,’ exclaimed Reba, putting the Kombi into park with a crunch. She offered around a pungent tin of weed gummies. ‘Anyone for a gummy? No? Well, more for Reebs.’
The little gang hauled themselves out of the Kombi, waiting for Lily to go through her clipboard and assign them tasks. (Watching the incense during wind gusts, assisting wayward guests back to the camp, venomous snake spotting and reporting, and poop shovelling in the event that guests’ lapdogs failed to adhere to the designated pooping area. Sausage looked quite indignant at this last one.)
‘Basically, if you see anyone looking anything other than delighted, offer to help,’ she said. ‘I promise to keep you all in food, cake, alcohol and goodwill.’
‘The good stuff,’ said Orson approvingly.
Reba held up a finger. ‘And before you go: uniforms.’
She dragged over a giant basket, digging through it for tie-dyed outfits for each of the Grief Guys.
