Page 70 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Like you’re ready for some very depressed boot scooting.’
‘There will be no boot scooting of any sort.’ Mort motioned for her to buckle her seatbelt. Off they trundled, Mort driving at his usual funereally appropriate pace.
‘We’re going to miss the wedding at this rate,’ said Lily. ‘And their first anniversary.’
‘Better late than dead,’ said Mort seriously, turning his head left, then right, then left, then right, then left, then right as he went to pull out into an intersection. It was like watching someone watching the tennis watching someone watching the tennis.
Fortunately the barn was a relatively short drive, even at what was close to a walking pace. The wedding space came into view, and through the huge open doors Lily admired her handiwork: the embedded tractor tyre aisle, the seats fashioned out of hay bales (for the groom’s side) and out of whiskey barrels (for the other groom’s side), the enormous horseshoe beneath which they were going to deliver their vows. (This was a prop from a movie about giant horses she’d found on Facebook Marketplace.) She’d really outdone herself with this one.
‘Park here,’ said Lily, pointing to a gravelly area a few hundredfeet from the barn, and well away from the guests’ cars. ‘We can’t show up in this thing. It’s not good for morale.’
‘Why not?’ said Mort, although he pulled over as told. ‘Elderly family members have heart attacks all the time at weddings. We’re just covering our bases.’
‘Speaking of covering,’ said Lily, as Mort opened her door for her. She craned her neck towards a commotion outside the barn. ‘Or rather, the opposite of covering …’
For up ahead, eight enormously buff guys dressed in what Lily could only describe as Chippendale chic seemed to be rehearsing carrying an emperor on their shoulders. Lily hadn’t heard anything about this. Was it a protest? Or a cheerleading routine?
Mort in tow and clipboard and walkie-talkie out, Lily hurried over, her cowboy boots clacking on the tractor tyre path that extended out from the barn. Oh, but it was quite comfortable – it was like running on a track.
‘I’m sorry, but … are you on the guest list?’ Lily flagged down the guys, who turned in a flawlessly coordinated demonstration of muscle and sinew. Lily hadn’t known that abdominal muscles came by the dozen. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s a private party. A wedding. And the grooms are going to be making an appearance any second now.’
‘We’re the Paul-bearers,’ explained the buffest of the guys, like this somehow made sense. ‘Well, except for him. He’s the Peter-bearer.’
‘Sorry,’ said Peter, who somehowdidlook like a Peter and not a Paul. ‘Paul #8 wasn’t feeling well, and we figured another P name would do. I was in Thunder from Down Under, if that counts.’
‘It definitely counts,’ said Lily, taking a sneaky photo to send to Annika, who’d spent much of their last Vegas trip appreciating the muscular troupe of Aussie performances. (Carrot Top hadbeen sold out, she’d said, not meeting Lily’s eyes.) ‘But … why are you here?’
‘We’re here to carry the lucky couple down the aisle.’ A guy with an elaborate frangipani tattoo on his very large upper arm (a sizeable canvas for a sizeable tattoo) mimed holding someone propped against his shoulder.
Lily frowned, flipping through her notes. She didn’t remember ordering a set of Pauls. Was this some sort of bachelor party thing? Then she realised, watching the guys simultaneously mime their whole carrying thing …
‘Pallbearers,’ she and Mort whispered simultaneously.
‘It’s the switcheroo,’ muttered Lily to Mort. ‘But sexy. I’ll allow it.’
‘At least we’re not graveside,’ said Mort.
‘This time,’ said Lily, with a grin. Her phone beeped. ‘Okay, we’re almost up. I’ll go find Bernard and Amos, and we’ll get this rodeo started.’
Lily rapped using the stirrup door knockers on the silvery his and his custom horse trailers the boys had chosen as their dressing rooms. Each was plushly upholstered with gleaming leather and draped with saddle cloths. (All right, Pendleton blankets, but close enough.) Flowers bloomed from cowboy boots.
‘How are we going in here, boys? The Paul-bearers are waiting.’
‘Oh yes, wesaw,’ said Bernard, extremely happily. Spinning on the silver heel of his cowboy boots, he showed off his magnificent custom suit, which sparkled with elaborately embroidered western scenes. ‘What a gift from the heavens.’
‘I am not complaining,’ agreed Lily.
‘Is that your boy Mort out there?’ whispered Amos, who was in a fabulous corduroy vest that Lily desperately wanted to touch. ‘Good for you for bringing a plus-one.’
‘Oh he’s not …’ started Lily, then gave up. Today’s wedding was going to take all of her focus – and she didn’t want to expend valuable energy explaining the complicated Mort situation. ‘C’mon, boys, it’s showtime.’
The Pauls gathered around the grooms as they emerged from their trailers.
The Paul with the frangipani tattoo knelt with his hands knotted into a human stirrup. ‘Who needs a leg up?’
Amos and Bernard shared a delighted grin.
‘Boost me,’ said Amos. He guffawed as he was hoisted skyward and onto the carefully staggered shoulders of half the Pauls, to some resounding applause from Bernard and Lily (and a quieter golf clap from Mort, who was watching with a quirked eyebrow). The remaining Pauls (and Peter) knelt, ready to give Bernard a lift.
