Page 29 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Welcome to the festivities,’ said Mort drily as Lily let herself in.
A group of mourners who’d gone to town on the open bar that had been set up on Moira’s coffin (it had been a closed coffin affair, at least) wrapped her in a tipsy hug. Lily, of course, did not seem to mind. She hugged right back, never mind that these were all strangers, and drunk ones at that.
‘I’m just here to get your stamp,’ she said to Mort after she’d extricated herself from the clutches of a woman opining loudly about Moira’s one-of-a-kind fried chicken batter, the recipe for which she’d apparently taken to the grave, bless her heart. ‘And enjoy the party.’
Mort harrumphed. ‘I don’t partake in town treasure maps. Or parties.’
‘All right, all right, to get a better look at the switcheroo and the number it’s done on your place,’ said Lily. She jabbed at her treasure map. ‘And also, you’re listed right here.’
‘No, that’s Eternal Elegance, Wedding Edition,’ lied Mort. He did not give out his stamp to women he barely knew. Even if they were unfairly becoming.
‘Sure, sure.’ Lily rolled her eyes. ‘Wait. Is that a photo booth? At afuneral?’
‘Sure is.’
‘You sly dog.’
‘It’s a switcheroo thing,’ said Mort. At least he hoped it was, because that was a better option than a mourner deciding, of their own volition, to immortalise Grandma Moira on Polaroid.
‘Have you indulged?’ asked Lily curiously.
‘Absolutely not. I have a reputation to uphold. This is a memorial service, after all. Whatever it might look like.’
Mouth open in mock horror, Lily smacked him lightly across the chest. ‘I’m sorry, but what kind of business owner doesn’t sample their own goods?’
Before Mort could protest – and hedidhave quite a protest ready – Lily had dragged him into the booth. The space was cosy and plush, with the sort of satin upholstery you might find in a coffin … and a series of discarded props that you might find on the person in said coffin. Mort was, well, mortified. They had to find a way to reverse this switcheroo immediately.
‘Here, this is for you,’ said Lily, draping an elastic bow tie around Mort’s neck. She wrapped a lace cuff around her own, then grabbed a black veil for good measure.
Oh, but she looked good.
All right, so the switcheroo didn’t have to be reversedimmediately, immediately. But soon.
The photo booth whirred as it prepared to snap their likenesses. Mort was painfully aware of Lily next to him: the warmth of her leg against his, the lightly floral scent of her shampoo as her hair grazed his neck. And now, the gentlest touch of her breath as she turned to him, her smile broad.
Mort wondered, not for the first time, what it might be like to kiss her.
But neither timing nor confidence was on his side.
‘Say … Rest in Peace!’ Lily called, throwing her arm around Mort as the camera clicked and whirred, clicked and whirred.
And fairly so because, in this moment, Mort had quite possibly died and gone to … well, whatever came after all of this.
It was not as easy as you’d think to find an organ repair guy, although Mort was a little under the weather in the wake of yesterday’s wake. Thankfully the party had moved elsewhere eventually, and Mort had managed to chase down the missing deceased in time to get her to her plot before the graveside workers clocked off for the day. Lily had excused herself after someone called Venus had texted her fifteen times in a row about tie-dyed tents, a recusal that Mort – although trying to keep his focus on the funeral he was managing – had somewhat mixed feelings about.
Anyway. Feeling moody about the fact that the switcheroo hadn’t magically resolved itself overnight, Mort sipped a decaf as he reviewed his latest set of organ-related search results, whichhad pulled up records for a handful of transplant surgeons who had holiday abodes in Mirage-by-the-Sea, followed by a farmers’ market booth specialising in oregano, a clarifying question from Siri about whether he had meant to type in the state of Oregon instead, and then a series of bullet points from an AI about organic chemistry.
Mort huffed in frustration; it wasn’t just that the organ-turned-marimba situation meant that he was going to have to resort to playing Enya on repeat on the temperamental Bluetooth speaker Gramps had hooked up in the viewing room. It was that the organ was his outlet – it was the closest thing he had to a piano in the funeral parlour, and therefore the closest outlet he had for his anxiety or for when he needed to get his thoughts in order.
‘Still switcherooed over there, huh?’ called Lily through the grille in the wall. Had she been listening in on his grumbly googling the whole time? Hopefully she hadn’t heard him get a tad testy with the guy who’d shown up on the front page of Google as anorgan donor near me. It wasn’t Mort’s fault that Siri had assumed the guy replaced musical instruments for free.
‘Clearly,’ said Mort. ‘And you?’
‘Oh no, it’s all sunshine and rainbows over here. There’s so much white that I feel like I’m in an ad for Philadelphia cream cheese.’
Mort straightened in his chair. ‘Are you being serious?’
‘Never. Unfortunately we’re stuck with our weird magical mishmash. But I think I can help you with the organ situation.’
