Page 18 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Quarter moon,’ corrected Lily, leaning on her mop.
‘And by the time we wake up tomorrow everything will be back to normal.’
‘And if not?’ asked Lily, pausing to pick up a set of playing cards shaped like caskets. ‘Those were shaped like hearts a few minutes ago, you know.’
Mort swallowed. ‘And if not, well, we’ll have to figure something out.’ He held up the pen. ‘Can I keep this?’
Lily made a face. ‘You can also have that weird lava lamp one filled with what looks worryingly like blood. Hey, it’s sunny outside again. Maybe a reversal is in the works.’
Setting down the mop, she hurried outside, Mort in tow, to where the skies were their familiar deep blue once more. The puddles steamed as they evaporated under the warming touch of the sun. The abrupt rainstorm already forgotten, people thronged down the promenade, eating vinegar-drenched chips on the benches of the rotunda, sharing gelato from 40 Licks, and browsing the shelves of The Naked Bookshop. Apparently none of the other businesses in the village had been affected, thought Mort, peering around for signs that the switcheroo might have cast a wider net.
Taking it all in – the bright flowers, the quaint businesses, the colourful bicycles and roller skates – Mort couldn’t help but see Mirage-by-the-Sea through Lily’s eyes. Theromanceof it. This wasn’t just a place where the elderly carked it and needed abrupt funeral arrangements. Or the spot where season seven ofThe Love Questionhad filmed, citing the sunny weather and the tax breaks. (They hadn’t renewed after learning just how hostile the promenade area was to any vehicle larger than a moped.)
It was a place that people came to for birthdays, for holidays, for respite from the business of everyday life. A place that celebrated joy over seriousness, whimsy over the sedate. And, of course, poodles over greyhounds.
As Mort had known she would, Lily made a beeline for what had been until a few minutes ago two very elegant twin black greyhound sculptures perfectly aligned with the funeral home’s dark, elegiac branding.
‘Okay, so it’s not all bad.’ Lily giggled, patting the poodles’ snouts. Pulling a paper crown from a back pocket, and then a floral lei, she proceeded to dress up the poodles, snapping a quick photo of her handiwork when she was done. ‘If we’re stuck with this whole switcheroo thing, thiswouldmake a great spot for couples shoots.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mort. ‘Right in front of a funeral home. Perfect start to married life.’
As though summoned by Mort’s statement (and why not, for stranger things had happened in the past hour), two goths sidled up, the woman of the pair in shoes so tall she towered over Mort – rarely did anyone tower over Mort. Her partner was decked out in a magnificent pirate’s cloak. On his shoulder perched a green and gold budgerigar, whistling happily to the tune of what Mort picked out as a Sisters of Mercy song.
‘Greetings, meat puppets,’ said the woman, closing herparasol. She spoke in an impressive monotone, like a chatbot trained on Coleridge poems and episodes ofDaria. ‘The word on the wind is that you do goth weddings? Or is that next door?’
Lily raised an eyebrow at Mort. ‘See, the poodles are already working.’
The goth woman squinted carefully so as not to mess up her red-and-black eyeshadow. (Mort understood – he knew only too well just what went into creating the perfect corpselike visage.) ‘I was told there were black dogs of death guarding the premises, and yet …’
She regarded the poodles with the look of someone who has just been Rickrolled. Although, in a way, she had been.
‘They’re on loan … to a mortuary museum,’ said Mort.
‘Acceptable. So, you’re the master of nuptial ceremonies?’
Lily waved gaily from under her rainbow umbrella, which was slightly superfluous at this point. ‘That’d be me.’
‘A rainbow goth,’ mused the woman.
‘More like a hi-Visigoth,’ added the man, with a chuckle.
The woman considered, then assented. ‘Well, the goth umbrella casts a wide shadow.’
‘Sure does,’ said Lily, giving her umbrella a twirl. ‘Also, I love your budgie.’
She reached out a finger for the budgerigar to nuzzle. The budgie gave a little chirrup, then did a little dance. ‘What’s your name, cutie?’
‘He goes by Sunny. It’s not our preferred moniker, of course,’ noted the woman, retreating urgently from a patch of sun. ‘It came pre-bestowed.’
‘He’s a good little dude,’ added the guy. ‘Picked him up at the shelter about five years ago. This is Desdemona. I’m Ambrose.’
‘Lily.’ Lily held out a hand, which Ambrose took, with a bow,and Desdemona with an incredibly stern curtsey. ‘And this is Mort. He does funerals.’
‘Excellent. We’ll stop by anon – funerals do inspire me so.’
Mort nodded politely. ‘Please do. But no rush, of course. Unless you’re at risk of imminent death.’
‘We’re all at risk of imminent death,’ intoned Desdemona.
