Page 48 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Mort tried to position himself between Poppy Clive and Uncle Irv, who it seemed had some unfinished business that spanned generations. Specifically, the generation that came directly after theirs. ‘Um, let’s move on to the next part of this … celebration of life.’
‘Righto. Who’s ready for the bouquet toss?’ Sister Margaret (sister as in genealogically, not as in the devoted to Christ type) had grabbed the bouquet of lilies from the casket and had leapt atop a chair. Her back to the crowd, she held the bouquet between her knees, ready to show Uncle Irv a thing or two about hurling things across a room.
A bouquet toss was not what Mort had in mind.
‘We don’t really …’ Mort swallowed. ‘That’s more the remit of next door.’
But the mourners – revellers really – were not having it. A gaggle of wrinkled women had shoved aside the chairs that Mort had carefully set out that morning and were primed for a crucial moment of athleticism.
‘Let ’er rip, Marge!’ shouted Aunt Agnes, whom Mort did not doubt for a second was ready to perform a tackle if needed. She’d absolutely played rugby during her college years. Her quads strained as she settled into a catching pose.
‘Agnes, you were first to get married. You’re not wining this race, too,’ grumbled Cousin Domenica, who had no shortage of grievances today. She’d been fourth in the family to be married, although she’d managed it four times, so perhaps she’d prevailed in the end. Well, her wedding planners had, anyway, although Mort wasn’t sure that wedding planners had been a thing half a century ago. He’d ask Lily next time he saw her.
‘Please let it be me,’ wheezed Great-Great-Auntie Petunia, who was hooked up to enough oxygen to keep a submarine crew underwater for a solid six months. For some reason she carried a bucket filled with kitchen utensils. (Advanced age brought out odd proclivities in people.) ‘I don’t ask for much … only death.’
It was a fair ask, Mort had to admit.
There was jostling and grumbling as the mourning women hoicked up their skirts and kicked off their shoes in preparation for the athletic feat about to follow.
‘And a-one! And a-two! And a …’ Sister Margaret hurled the lilies over her head and into the circling crowd of funereal sharks. It was a solid throw: Sister Margaret had a better arm than UncleIrv, and the lilies flew through the air on an impressive arcing trajectory, racing through the too-slow grabbing hands of Aunt Agnes and tumbling to the floor.
It was a bloodbath. Great-aunts and sisters and cousins-twice-removed and a bearded gentleman with The Dude vibes who’d introduced himself as the pool guy descended in a frenzy of high kicks and elbow jabs and hair pulling. Mort had never seen anybody at a wedding so desperate to catch the bouquet. And he’d certainly never seen anyone at a funeral fight to be next in line to die.
Through all the chaos, Great-Great-Aunt Petunia was sneaking in on her chair, brandishing a pair of tongs she’d pulled from the quiver on her back like some sort of elderly kitchen-hand assassin.
A snapping of tongs – not quite,almost… yes! The tongs grabbed at the bouquet, clasping at the ribbon that held it together. Great-Great Aunt Petunia yanked it towards her like a fisherman triumphantly landing a fish, then cradled it like said fisherman in his dating app photo.
‘I got it!’ whispered Great-Great Aunt Petunia, a tear trickling down her wrinkled cheek. ‘Oh, happy day.’
Mort swallowed. This was not precisely how he would’ve categorised the outcome, but she seemed happy, and who was he to argue with that?
Bouquet in her lap, Great-Great-Aunt Petunia rolled up to Mort. She reached for a black Glomesh purse, pulling from it a hefty pen and a not-so-hefty chequebook.
‘Mr Mort, will you do me the honour of being my funeral planner?’
Mort spluttered. This was almost as romantic a proposal as the one that had caused this whole situation.
And then, because the switcheroo couldn’t get enough ofmaking fun of poor, sad old Mort and his dreadful career choice, Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’ started blasting over the speakers.
Once he’d taken Great-Great-Aunt Petunia’s deposit, Mort went off shakily to the kitchen to pour himself a champagne.
Swan Song
Lily
Venus Cargill was the embodiment of the verb ‘to swan’. All long neck and long beak, she glided into Eternal Elegance (Wedding Edition) with the ease of a water bird coasting around on a golf course water feature. And given the din of the private helicopter that had landed in the amphitheatre, she was going to glide out just as easily.
She took so long to shimmy through the front door that Lily had time to make a quick prayer to the switcheroo godsandbang out a quick text to Annika about the arrival of the heiress.
!!texted back Annika.
Right??responded Lily.
Their correspondence would be fit for the Smithsonian one day.
(Mom, meanwhile, had just sent Lily seventeen screen-grabbed boomer cartoons from Facebook. She’d figure out a way to respond to those later.)
‘Lily, darling!’ Venus came in for a three-kiss greeting that involved lots ofmwah!sound effects. ‘I cannot tell youhowexcited I am for you to bring my vision for my nuptials to life. Thank you for taking over from the previous wedding planner at such short notice. She just didn’t get my vibe, you know?Oh, I brought you some toothpaste. Our new Pearly Whites range, made with natural pearls. It’s the decadence your teeth deserve.’
