Page 11 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Lily blushed beneath her umbrella. Well, blushing was better than almost crying.

‘Well, obviously I figured that out eventually.’ She touched shaking fingers to a half-melted wall with distinct Salvador Dalí vibes. ‘Ugh, this paint was meant to be colour-fast. I might have a legal case against Pace Hardware.’

Mort picked over the table of bonbonniere, which had transformed from a pile of chirpy kitschy tchotchkes into a sombre selection of mini tombstones, mourning rings and dried flowers. (This was actually an improvement. Well, except for the bracelet made from human hair.)

‘I mean, you can try. They have a bulldog lawyer on retainer after Tom Evans walked under every ladder they had and tried to claim that he suffered a lifetime of bad luck as a result of their shop display.’

‘Maybe not, then. Is your funeral parlour like this?’ Lily gingerly prodded a stack of black candles with the smiley face handle of her umbrella.

‘Uh-huh. It’s more like a fun parlour,’ replied Mort despondently. ‘It’s not meant to be the kind of place you kick up your heels and dance a jig. It’s death ! Death is serious business.’

‘So is matrimony,’ said Lily seriously, although it was hard to take her that way under her rainbow umbrella. ‘It’s not something you do for shits and giggles.’

Mort regarded a black-and-white marbled stationery set. ‘Not with these price tags.’

‘Those are more expensive now. Limited edition.’ Lily sighed. ‘They were originally cream. And the supplier has moved to Romania, so I can’t return them.’

Mort plunked himself down on an acrylic ghost chair – hadn’t this been pink and plush just a few hours ago?

‘The rain’s starting to slow at least,’ he said. ‘A good thing, because when I texted Gramps about the last time the roof had been replaced, he sent me this.’

He showed Lily a text message chain with a ‘ …’ bubble.

‘Sounds like your landlord should be saving for a new roof,’ said Lily, twisting her hair into a damp messy bun shot through with a rainbow pin.

‘Oh, Gramps owns it.’ Mort tried not to stare as Lily, done with her hair, deftly tied a knot in her shirt to keep it from getting in the way as she set to work cleaning up the mess the storm had caused. Ah, so she dealt with trauma by rolling up her sleeves and getting to work.

‘So you don’t have the same rental terms as me, huh? Cheap rent for a year and then see ya later?’

‘None of that,’ said Mort, although personally Mort thought that maybe the discounted rent programme had overstayed its welcome. Why not let a business properly establish itself? Especially if that business belonged to Lily. ‘We’re here for life. Well, death. Gramps bought this place decades ago.’

Lily exhaled as she shook out a selection of crystal plates – now streaked black and gold. ‘I didn’t even get a chance to take out an insurance policy.’

‘I don’t think that Acts of Switcheroo are covered.’ Mort blew on a party blower, which fanned out into a printed obituary. He jumped – all right, so this was going to take some getting used to. ‘If it makes you feel any better, my place looks worse. Very … matrimonial. No offence.’

‘That makes me feel worse, actually.’ Lily squeezed out the mop she’d been dragging across the floor. ‘Maybe we could swap? I mean, we do share a business name.’

Mort considered this, but only for a second. ‘You want to plan weddings with a bunch of coffins as a backdrop? Well, half coffins, half bunk beds – don’t ask. Isn’t that a bit limiting in terms of clientele?’

‘The goth market’s huge,’ said Lily. ‘They’re really committed to the whole aesthetic. But you’re right. It wouldn’t be fair to your Gramps either. I mean, he dedicated how many years to running the funeral home?’

‘Way too many.’ Mort picked up a pen that was quite fetchingly engraved with an intricate skull-and-bat design. ‘Anyway, who’s to say it won’t just all swap back? Maybe this is just a strange … mirage or something. A temporary glitch in the matrix. A quirk of the full moon.’

‘Quarter moon,’ corrected Lily, leaning on her mop.

‘And by the time we wake up tomorrow everything will be back to normal.’

‘And if not?’ asked Lily, pausing to pick up a set of playing cards shaped like caskets. ‘Those were shaped like hearts a few minutes ago, you know.’

Mort swallowed. ‘And if not, well, we’ll have to figure something out.’ He held up the pen. ‘Can I keep this?’

Lily made a face. ‘You can also have that weird lava lamp one filled with what looks worryingly like blood. Hey, it’s sunny outside again. Maybe a reversal is in the works.’

Setting down the mop, she hurried outside, Mort in tow, to where the skies were their familiar deep blue once more.

The puddles steamed as they evaporated under the warming touch of the sun.

The abrupt rainstorm already forgotten, people thronged down the promenade, eating vinegar-drenched chips on the benches of the rotunda, sharing gelato from 40 Licks, and browsing the shelves of The Naked Bookshop.

Apparently none of the other businesses in the village had been affected, thought Mort, peering around for signs that the switcheroo might have cast a wider net.

Taking it all in – the bright flowers, the quaint businesses, the colourful bicycles and roller skates – Mort couldn’t help but see Mirage-by-the-Sea through Lily’s eyes.

The romance of it. This wasn’t just a place where the elderly carked it and needed abrupt funeral arrangements.

Or the spot where season seven of The Love Question had filmed, citing the sunny weather and the tax breaks.

(They hadn’t renewed after learning just how hostile the promenade area was to any vehicle larger than a moped.)

It was a place that people came to for birthdays, for holidays, for respite from the business of everyday life. A place that celebrated joy over seriousness, whimsy over the sedate. And, of course, poodles over greyhounds.

As Mort had known she would, Lily made a beeline for what had been until a few minutes ago two very elegant twin black greyhound sculptures perfectly aligned with the funeral home’s dark, elegiac branding.

‘Okay, so it’s not all bad.’ Lily giggled, patting the poodles’ snouts.

Pulling a paper crown from a back pocket, and then a floral lei, she proceeded to dress up the poodles, snapping a quick photo of her handiwork when she was done.

‘If we’re stuck with this whole switcheroo thing, this would make a great spot for couples shoots. ’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mort. ‘Right in front of a funeral home. Perfect start to married life.’

As though summoned by Mort’s statement (and why not, for stranger things had happened in the past hour), two goths sidled up, the woman of the pair in shoes so tall she towered over Mort – rarely did anyone tower over Mort.

Her partner was decked out in a magnificent pirate’s cloak.

On his shoulder perched a green and gold budgerigar, whistling happily to the tune of what Mort picked out as a Sisters of Mercy song.

‘Greetings, meat puppets,’ said the woman, closing her parasol. She spoke in an impressive monotone, like a chatbot trained on Coleridge poems and episodes of Daria . ‘The word on the wind is that you do goth weddings? Or is that next door?’

Lily raised an eyebrow at Mort. ‘See, the poodles are already working.’

The goth woman squinted carefully so as not to mess up her red-and-black eyeshadow. (Mort understood – he knew only too well just what went into creating the perfect corpselike visage.) ‘I was told there were black dogs of death guarding the premises, and yet …’

She regarded the poodles with the look of someone who has just been Rickrolled. Although, in a way, she had been.

‘They’re on loan … to a mortuary museum,’ said Mort.

‘Acceptable. So, you’re the master of nuptial ceremonies?’

Lily waved gaily from under her rainbow umbrella, which was slightly superfluous at this point. ‘That’d be me.’

‘A rainbow goth,’ mused the woman.

‘More like a hi-Visigoth,’ added the man, with a chuckle.

The woman considered, then assented. ‘Well, the goth umbrella casts a wide shadow.’

‘Sure does,’ said Lily, giving her umbrella a twirl. ‘Also, I love your budgie.’

She reached out a finger for the budgerigar to nuzzle. The budgie gave a little chirrup, then did a little dance. ‘What’s your name, cutie?’

‘He goes by Sunny. It’s not our preferred moniker, of course,’ noted the woman, retreating urgently from a patch of sun. ‘It came pre-bestowed.’

‘He’s a good little dude,’ added the guy. ‘Picked him up at the shelter about five years ago. This is Desdemona. I’m Ambrose.’

‘Lily.’ Lily held out a hand, which Ambrose took, with a bow, and Desdemona with an incredibly stern curtsey. ‘And this is Mort. He does funerals.’

‘Excellent. We’ll stop by anon – funerals do inspire me so.’

Mort nodded politely. ‘Please do. But no rush, of course. Unless you’re at risk of imminent death.’

‘We’re all at risk of imminent death,’ intoned Desdemona.

Fair. Mort watched Lily lead her new clients off to her dramatically redecorated shop, wondering how she was managing to stay so chipper when everything had turned upside down and inside out.

Mort went back inside the upsettingly refurbished funeral parlour, preparing to practise his scales on the pipe organ – something that always helped soothe his anxiety when it came bubbling up and over, which it was certainly doing right now.

But the organ was no longer an organ – it had somehow melted into a marimba.

Wonderful. Mort grabbed the soft pink mallets sitting on the marimba’s wooden keys and banged out a mournful scale.

Now what?