Page 83 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Andwe get free clothes.’ Stribley struck a pose in his new rainbow button-down shirt. ‘Living the high life.’
‘And you, Mort.’ Reba tossed a purplish blazer in Mort’s direction.
Absolutely not, thought Lily.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Mort, just as she’d anticipated.
‘At least do a tie. Lily can help you with it.’
‘I know how to …’ began Mort, then trailed off. ‘All right,’ he said gruffly.
He stooped, his dark gaze thoughtful as he let Lily gently tie a double Windsor for him. She was mindful of her hands on his shoulders, against the warmth of his throat, as they had been during the night he’d come to visit her apartment. A frisson of electricity sparkled through her as she smoothed the paisley-print fabric.
‘Suits you,’ she said, straightening the knot and trying to ignore the intrusive voice telling her to use the tie to yank Mort towards her.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Mort.
What if she kissed him? What then? What if she just pulled him off into one of the carefully crafted flower beds and pinned him down? What if she finally figured out a label for this unusual situation they were in, so she wouldn’t have to keep calling Mort the ‘guy next door with whom she happened to share a business name’.
But no, this was Venus’s day, not hers.
‘These two,’ said Reba as Gracie ducked in, snapping a photo of Lily and Mort before Mort could put up a hand in protest.
Blushing from the extreme turn her thoughts had just taken, Lily checked the time on her phone. ‘All right, everyone, let’s get to it. Reba, can you make sure the Grief Guys have a tent?’
‘On it. Who wants to help me pop one up?’
Stribley and Duggo followed after the colourful hippie as she led them off between the rows of colourful tents. Sausage trotted after them, ears dragging and tail wagging. (Gracie snapped a brilliant action shot of the little dog leaping over a leaf.)
‘This is going to be quite the event,’ said Mort, as Lily took him past a set of plush couches dressed with plump cushions and surrounded by giant vegan leather ottomans.
‘Look at you, Mr Compliments. Here’s Premetheus, by the way,’ said Lily, as they rounded what Reba had dubbed the Reclining Tent and came upon the glossy food truck.
Mort waved at Jefferson, who was pouring an amuse-bouche for an extremely thin, extremely wealthy-looking woman. Although Lily supposed that everything on the menu could be considered an amuse-bouche.
The remaining few hours before the nuptials quickly disappeared into an array of last-minute tasks and frantic questions about where best to land a helicopter. Throughout it all, Lily was extremely mindful that Venus had not yet made an appearance, and worse, wasn’t answering her texts. Or even her Instagram messages. Perhaps she was just still in hair and makeup. Or a hyperbaric chamber. Or whatever it was that the rich did to prepare for a major event.
When Venus finally did show up, she was munching on the tin of gummies that Reba had been offering around earlier. She did look fabulous – she wore a macramé gown that bridged the gap between Greek goddess and hippie idol, and her hair spilled in gentle waves so far down her back that it almost touched the ground. (Nature had received some assistance from a hair stylist.Or at the very least a special prenatal vitamin for the very rich that offered miraculous hair growth properties.)
But she also looked ashen and peaked – more like someone who might be graveside at one of Mort’s funerals than a bride about to join her partner in a lifetime of love.
‘Low iron,’ Venus explained airily, when Lily asked if she was okay. ‘It’s the low-everything diet I’m on. The wan look is terrible in person, but photographs well. Which is vital, because I did hire a few paparazzi to take pictures on the down-low.’
She must have caught Lily’s surprised look, because she added, ‘Don’t worry – you’ll never pick them out from the other guests. They do this sort of thing all the time. Ooh, the revellers are starting to arrive.’
Sleek tour buses in hippie livery were pulling onto the property, interspersed by Bentleys and very low sports cars nervously chugging over the divots in the field that had been designated for parking. The sky was dotted with helicopters waiting for the chance to land, their blades churning the sky.
‘That’s Desmond,’ said Venus, pointing out one of the helicopters with a tone that rather suggested she wanted it to crash. Hoping the gummies went to work sooner rather than later, Lily scooted the bride off to her dressing room tent, which was magnificently decked out with a huge antique dresser, hanging mirrors that shimmered on golden chains, and elaborate clusters of fat candles and Moroccan lanterns. She let the tent flap fall – a nervous bride deserved her privacy.
Meanwhile, the guests had begun trickling onto the grounds, dressed in dramatic, designer bohemian style, as if they’d all been diverted from Coachella with promises of better drugs and cooler weather. Air kisses and air hugs flitted about, as did gossipy murmurings about affairs and second homes and bankruptcies and patents.
Back from putting up their tent, the Grief Guys helped direct the guests to the eclectic ensemble of beanbags, couches and Adirondack chairs. Lily, meanwhile, gathered the folk musicians who’d been lounging around in one of the tents, ushering them to the thatched riser near the altar. Ah, and there was the groom, who was changing from his work attire into a pair of tan trousers (with braces) and a smart grey sports jacket. And a pair of Allbirds, of course. It was an impressive costume change given that he managed the whole thing while dictating a cease-and-desist letter over the phone.
Now there was just the matter of the celebrant. Where was she?
Lily checked her emails, her texts, her social media messages, but to no avail.
‘Can I help?’ asked Mort, who’d returned from Premetheus with a bamboo container of something liquidy in hand.
