Page 94 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘Um,’ said Mort. ‘Santa is very careful about data privacy.’
‘I understand.’ Cousin Nolene gripped Mort’s bicep. ‘Wow, sostrong. It must be from all the toys you build in that workshop of yours.’
‘Oh, the elves are in charge of that,’ said Mort. ‘I mostly handle … logistics.’
‘Logistics can be sexy,’ purred Cousin Nolene, dropping her hand and giving Mort an alarming leg squeeze. An inch higher and he’d be singing like a castrato. ‘So, you’re saying that if I give you directions to the powder room down the hall, you’d be able to find me?’
‘Um, yes. Let’s give that a try.’
‘I’ll be waiting with your Kris Kringle,’ she breathed, sliding off his lap and trip-trapping away through the reception area.
Mort exhaled in relief, then turned an alarmed gaze on the gathering crowd. Dozens of costumed people bobbed along to ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ as they waited for their moment with Santa: groups of kids dressed as elves; a coupledressed as sexy reindeer; someone dolled up as a menorah; an out-of-place werewolf who’d apparently got their dress codes mixed up. It was going to be a long evening.
He’d managed to smile and chuckle his way through half a dozen guests when an elderly, dramatically dressed sugarplum fairy (Mort guessed) hauled herself up the ramp towards the sled using a rickety walking frame with disco-ball-covered tennis ball feet on the bottom.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ he called, reaching out a hand to help her up onto the sleigh.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped. ‘A handsy Santa is the last thing I need. Haven’t you heard of personal space?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mort said as politely as he could.Be like Lily. Be like Lily,he thought. ‘I’m used to working around elves. The South Pole has different personal space norms.’
‘Bah. You’re no Santa. Santa’s jolly. You’re morose.’
Is that any fucking surprise?Mort wanted to say. But Lily wouldn’t do that. Lily would make a joke, or she’d offer the old biddy a mint. Or she’d use her natural charm to somehow shift this woman’s mood from grump to giggly.
‘So, how would you like me to sign your guest book note?’ asked Mort, opening the Naughty & Nice book. Tink had done a fabulous job with it, as always: the entire thing was handbound, with tooled leather and debossing, and a little ribbon bookmark topped with a bell.
‘Just Jemimah,’ snapped the old woman. ‘NotGemma. Or Genevieve. Jemimah, like the Puddle-Duck, but with an h on the end, although you’re too young to know. I bet you grew up on screens. Like my third husband, and the one after him. Not husband … more … beau. Full of drama, that one. The whole family was against it from the start.’
Mort’s snowdome pen skipped. This was Aunt Jemimah ofthe seating chart fame. The one they’d decided to rotate from table to table every ten minutes to avoid the inevitable fist fights, or in the case of Sissy Chalmers, who had a documented history of such behaviour, someone being glassed in the face. The Grief Guys had been enlisted to distract Aunt Jemimah with hors d’oeuvres and photo opportunities and the travelling spring of ‘kisstletoe’ that was going around so that she’d never actually take a seat at any time during the night, and therefore couldn’t raise hell.
‘So, Aunt Jemimah, what wish would you like to make on behalf of the happy couple?’
But Aunt Jemimah had gone very still. She stiffened next to Mort, clutching at her heart. Then she toppled into him, the way he’d worried that Cousin Nolene might. Although, alas, Aunt Jemimah lacked any padding, making it a very bony fall.
Now what? Pretending to scribble a lengthy note in the Nighty & Nice book, Mort glanced around the room for Lily, who was helping prop up a giant blow-up snowman that had sprung a leak. The Grief Guys rushed in with tape and a bicycle pump.
‘Lily,’ whispered Mort, when she glanced his way. He waved his beard like a flag on a ship. ‘Lily! Aunt Jemimah. She’s … carked it.’
Lily hurried over, the flared skirt of her Mrs Claus outfit swishing. ‘She’s what now? But we put all that work into the logistics for tonight.’
‘What do I do with her?’ he whispered.
Lily handed out candy canes to a couple of kids and sent them on their way. ‘I mean … you’re the corpse guy.’
‘I’m not a corpse guy! I’m a funeral director.’
‘But there’s quite a bit of overlap, no? Just … haul her out the back and put her in the hearse.’
‘But we dressed up the hearse as a sleigh,’ Mort reminded her. ‘There are twelve papier-mâché reindeer attached to it, all of them with remote-controlled cars – courtesy of Stribley’s grandson Hunter – attached to their cloven hoofs, and all of them requiring the assistance of the Grief Guys with their remote controls. So moving it is going to be a joint effort.’
‘Can I just put her in the Miata? She’s small. She’d fit.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Mort.
Lily eyed the giant empty moving boxes she and Mort had so carefully gift-wrapped the night before.
‘The fridge box,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll hold her until we’re done. Will she be okay for a few hours?’
