Page 54 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Yes, but is itcheery?’
More to shut Lily up than anything, Mort pushed open the door – just a crack at first, then all the way.
The apartment was sunny and soft. Light streamed in through the lace curtains on the far wall, playing off the cushioned furniture and gleaming against a gold mirror in the shape of a sun.Home sweet home, read the throw pillow on the armchair in the corner. A family of padded fabric ducks migrated up the pastel wallpaper, apparently trying to escape the lavender chenille bedspread (and the heart-shaped packets of lavender potpourri in a dish on the side table).
Lily chuckled. ‘Wow, Gramps would hate this.’
‘He really would,’ admitted Mort.
‘Especially the ducks,’ they both said simultaneously.
Mort sat down on the bed, feeling its aged springs sag under his weight – it was designed for tiny elderly people, not thirty-year-old funeral directors with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Setting her handbag on the floor with a fearsomewhump– had she brought the plates with her? – Lily sat beside him, a puddle of colourful fabric next to Mort’s all-black outfit. Her arm grazed his, infusing him with a warmth that scared him. One day, it would be Lily in a bed like this. And then what?
‘Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.’ Lily took Mort’s hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.
There must have been an ungrounded electrical wire in the room, because Mort felt a zap. He stared down at their twined fingers, at how slim and tiny Lily’s, with their rainbow nails, were next to his. He wasn’t sure how did she did it, but her presence made everything feel brighter and more delightful somehow. Not that he was asking that of her – it wasn’t someone else’s job to put you in a good mood – but there was something about those joyful blue eyes and the way she cocked her head and the sheer effort she put into connecting with everything aroundher that made Mort want to be, well, less grumpy and more … grateful. Grateful was the word he was after.
Putting his free hand over hers, he squeezed back.
‘I’m thinking that Gramps should stay in his house,’ said Mort, trying to avoid the gaze of a kitschy ceramic cat wearing huge glasses. ‘Somehow, even if it means getting him a butler.’
‘Or a nice European au pair,’ added Lily.
‘But since the reason we came up here is for your spearmint-peppermint toothpaste merger or whatever it is, let’s go talk to Jefferson about catering your event. Trust me, he’ll be perfect. The pickiest eater I’ve ever met, and firmly opposed to all texture.’
‘How does he feel about different ingredients touching?’ asked Lily.
‘The same way he feels about the word “mouthfeel”: strongly.’
‘I love him already.’
Like a Mechanical Bull in a China Shop
Lily
Phone on speaker waiting for Venus to come off hold (the toothpaste heiress had been called into an urgent investor meeting about some sort of water laser dental floss), Lily sat at her desk, containers of allergen-friendly, low-mastication retirement home food in front of her. Jefferson was a genius. There was simply the matter of branding to deal with, and that was where Lily came in.
After her nightly Google session to see if Veronica Teuer had surfaced, Lily had spent the rest of the night on Canva whipping up an edgy brand identity aligned with all the most on-trend content – Venus was going to love it (if she ever came off hold). Even better, she’d be slightly baffled, but that bafflement would be what clinched the deal. The fashionablealwaysleapt on what they didn’t understand because they’d rather be clueless than late to the party. Better to spend the money and then have your assistant do a deep dive than miss out on an opportunity to be theitgirl.
As Lily bopped along to the folksy hold music, Mort’s low, calm voice wandered through the grille above Lily’s desk. Lily wished she were on the other side of the wall, watching Morttry to pick the jelly beans out of his beloved black cat candy jar. Or helping him show a newly widowed professor of medieval studies the newly arrived handcrafted replica of the Anglo-Saxon Loveden Hill Cremation Urn, a striking piece of ancient craftmanship that looked to Lily very much like a garden planter that had been sitting out in the rain for too long.
And yet, here she was talking about … what was she talking about again?
There was a rattle as the hold music ended and the clatter of helicopter blades came over the line. Lily had been on hold so long that Venus had managed to take flight.
‘Premetheus,’ said Lily triumphantly. That was it!
There was a pause over the line – or maybe just lag. ‘Like with the fire?’ crackled Venus’s voice.
‘Predatingthe fire,’ said Lily. ‘This is a restaurant so essential, so back to basics, that it doesn’t even cook its food. Everything is raw, vegan, easily chewable.’
She frowned – there was a commotion outside. Had Veronica returned to the scene of the failed proposal to undo the switcheroo?
‘Amazing,’ breathed Venus over the line (and the chopper blades). ‘Chewing feels so primordial, don’t you think? And this also ties into our new dental sensitivity line. How are the plates coming along?’
‘You’ll have more range than Mariah Carey,’ promised Lily, leaning in her chair to get a better glimpse of what was going on outside.
‘Lily?’ boomed Mort’s voice. (He’d apparently moved on from murmuring soothingly to the newly bereaved.)
