Page 73 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily jumped on her walkie-talkie, sending out an urgent announcement to Mort’s gang of gents.
‘Champagne in every glass, stat.’
The Grief Guys hurried about, pouring bubbly and handing out champagne flutes as the speeches began. (Bloody hell,but they were rude. Was it normal for speeches to be this rude? Or was this a switcheroo thing?)
‘Not a switcheroo thing,’ Lily said, smiling mischievously as one of the guests made a joke so off-colour that even Pantone didn’t have a number for it. She reached out to clink glasses with Mort, then looped her arm through his as they sipped. Mort indulged her, because it was extremely hard not to indulge Lily.
Oh, but he wanted to kiss her again. But after how badly he’d messed up last time, it was probably best to keep a respectful distance. Even if Lily was a vision in glittery pink right next to him, so close that their shoulders, their arms, their hips, kept brushing in a way that felt too close – and nowhere near close enough. It was a cruel and unusual punishment. Just like the fact that in a few months, she’d be gone from his life entirely.
‘Just make sure the gents dispose of the embalming fluid thoughtfully,’ said Mort, as they leaned against the back wall, slowly drinking their champagne. ‘It’s highly …’
A fireball erupted in the night sky, eliciting whoops and cheers from the tipsy crowd.
And also from Lily, who was clapping riotously.
‘Yes, that,’ said Mort, rubbing his temples. There were far too many unexpected events at weddings. It was impossible to keep track of all the moving pieces.
‘Wow,’ Lily exclaimed. ‘Free fireworks!’
‘No one died,’ reported a guest with an astonishing handlebar moustache so long and styled that it seemed to have been taken from an actual bicycle. ‘No one died!’
‘To not dying!’ cheersed someone in a sexy cow outfit. (Mort wasn’t sure whether they’d misinterpreted the dress code, or accurately interpreted it.)
‘Cheers to that!’ said a guest, raising a wayward glass of embalming fluid.
‘Oop, not that one.’ Lily jumped up on a chair to switch out the drink for a Salty Dog. ‘This one’s stronger.’
‘I like you,’ said the guest, knocking back the cocktail, then wrapping Lily in a drunken hug. ‘Anyone who brings me drinks is a friend of Jack’s.’
‘I wouldn’t want it any other way.’ Lily gave Jack a good-natured pat on the head, then climbed back down to the floor.
‘Amazing,’ purred Amos, who was sidling past with Bernard. ‘First the Paul-bearers, and now surprise fireworks? I love you as much as I love Bernard. Almost.’
‘I’ll let it slide just this once,’ said Bernard, whose grin took up most of his face. ‘Because the feeling’s mutual.’
Lily winked and gave them both a kiss on the cheek.
The band kicked up, breaking out into a fascinating bluegrass rendition of ‘I Will Survive’.
Amos clapped his hands in delight. ‘Sorry, babe, but we can’tnotdance to this.’
The newlyweds raced off towards the dance floor, which was densely populated with everyone who hadn’t (yet) been injured by Rosa the mechanical bull.
‘Well then,’ said Lily to Mort, teasingly, ‘I suppose we might as well hit the dance floor.’
Mort swallowed.
Lily regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Ah, but you don’t dance.’
Mort raised an eyebrow. ‘I dance. Just not to … this.’
Lily managed a wobbly, champagne-influenced turn in her cowboy boots. ‘Oh, I just think you’re scared. I hear that dancing is correlated with an increase in torn Achilles tendons. You might even get stabbed with a stiletto and die.’
‘I don’t know who you’ve been dancing with, but that’s not typically how these things go. Besides, the floor is more likely to collapse than anything.’
‘Well, then, prove me wrong.’ Lily murmured something into her walkie-talkie, and as if on cue, the lights dimmed. The gentle intro to ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ shimmered across the room.
‘I’ve heard you playing this on the pianola,’ whispered Lily.
