Page 12 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Lily

‘Excuse the mess,’ said Lily. Although oddly, there wasn’t all that much to excuse.

The pools and puddles had evaporated, leaving just the blotches of dark ink and funereal twists on Lily’s decor in their wake.

Something occultish had occurred, and assuming everything didn’t go back to rights overnight as Mort had suggested, she’d get to the bottom of it.

But for now, she had some walk-in clients (her first!) relying on her to deliver the exceptional customer service her Yelp reviews promised.

All right, the one Yelp review that actually related to her services.

(The rest were for the other Eternal Elegance, who apparently had some problems with the attitude of the current funeral director.

And also the direction of the wind when it came to the spreading of ashes, although Lily personally thought that was a user error issue.)

‘Deliciously odd vibes.’ Desdemona nodded at a wilting dahlia in a bud jar as she took a seat on one of the clear acrylic chairs.

The dahlia had been delivered just this morning, alas.

(Although Lily wasn’t about to complain about the ghost chairs – she’d always wanted a set, but they’d been out of her budget.) ‘I do love to see it. So, my dark love and I are embarking upon a till-death-do-us-part journey.’

‘A wedding,’ added Ambrose. ‘In case that was ambiguous.’

‘Well, I do get the odd cult leader in here,’ joked Lily, even though after the whole switcheroo business she wasn’t feeling particularly mirthful.

Who was to say that the business wouldn’t continue down its funereal path in the coming hours?

What if her oven turned into a crematorium or the local bat community decided that her chandelier was an appropriate napping place?

Hand shaking, she passed Desdemona a handle-less coffee cup that looked terribly like a miniature cremation urn. At least the coffee brewer had been working – although the milk in the fridge had curdled. (‘Fortunately I like my coffee black, like my soul,’ Desdemona had purred.)

‘Cult leaders? Do tell me more,’ said Desdemona, her long nails rattling against her coffee cup and sparking in Lily the opposite of an ASMR response.

Sunny, apparently also triggered by the nails, wolf-whistled, then squawked I do, I do! , giving Lily a reprieve from having to make up a cult leader story on the spot.

Ambrose gave Sunny a proud pat. ‘We’ve been working on that. He’s going to do the rings.’

‘The vision is …’ Desdemona’s coffin-shaped nails flashed, which was still better than rattling ‘… something morbid. Something aligned with our way of life. Funereal, yet celebratory. Something that finds beauty in the darkness.’

‘But not spiders.’ Ambrose took a cautious seat on one of the clear chairs.

‘Uh-huh.’ Lily was uneasily taking notes with what had been until an hour or so ago her favourite pen. The yellow bobble on the top had turned grey. And how many people are we thinking?’

‘As few as possible,’ said Desdemona.

‘Our extended family,’ said Ambrose, simultaneously. ‘It’s only three people,’ he clarified. ‘And the dogs. Two dogs. Both pugs. A fawn and a brindle, if that helps.’

‘It does, it does.’ Dogs. Dogs were normal. Focus on the dogs and not on the switcheroo, Lily. Lily drew an elaborate picture of a pug, then wrote x2 next to it. ‘And will the dogs be … involved?’

Desdemona clutched the anatomical heart-shaped locket at her neck. ‘It wouldn’t be a wedding without honouring the canid souls who brought us together.’ She opened the locket, revealing the pictures of two well-dressed wrinkly doggies.

‘Maybe they could wear a little hat. Lazarus, anyway,’ mused Ambrose. ‘Edgar isn’t really the hat type. A tie. He could have a tie.’

‘A bow tie,’ added Desdemona thoughtfully. ‘Pinstriped.’

‘Pinstriped,’ repeated Lily, jotting that down. ‘And what time of day are we thinking?’

‘Midnight,’ they said simultaneously.

‘That’s a great time for a wedding. Just so long as we’re not feeding gremlins.’

‘We would never,’ said Desdemona haughtily.

‘Location?’

‘Cemetery,’ said Ambrose.

‘ Graveyard ,’ corrected Desdemona. ‘It’s not the same thing. I want unconsecrated ground.’

Ambrose jumped in to add, ‘But not in a problematic way.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Surely Mort had some suggestions – what Angela was to above-ground real estate, he was to burial plots. ‘And what kind of celebrant are we considering?’

‘Elvira,’ said Desdemona. ‘But I’ll accept an impersonator if she’s busy.’

‘She’s very busy,’ noted Ambrose. ‘I’ve emailed her agent seven times. I did get a signed photograph, though – we could use that at a pinch.’

‘For a summoning circle, perhaps,’ mused Desdemona.

‘Elvira …’ repeated Lily, adding a few question marks for good measure. ‘And do we have a date in mind?’

‘Friday the 13th.’

‘That’s when we met,’ added Ambrose. ‘It has a special meaning to us.’

Lily glanced at her planner, which had quite a few more skulls embossed into it than it had this morning. But it was nothing some decorative contact paper couldn’t fix. She hoped. ‘We actually have a Friday the 13th coming up in a couple of weeks. After that, we’d be looking at … eight months.’

Ambrose and Desdemona conferred, mentioning something about GothCon and a band they wanted to see in Munich, where Desdemona’s cousin Helmut lived.

(From the way they spoke about him, Helmut was an extremely cool cousin, and had even had a cameo on a few of Desdemona’s movies.

Lily jotted down a note to check out Desdemona’s IMDb over a glass of wine tonight.

Perhaps joined by a gloomy funeral director.

No, Lily. That was a recipe for business disaster.

Although … wasn’t this already a business disaster?)

‘The closer one,’ Ambrose and Desdemona finally agreed.

Lily swallowed as she eyeballed the distance between now and the next Friday the 13th.

The biggest pieces of the puzzle were always the venue and the catering, but those could be overcome.

Mirage-by-the-Sea was storybook, but it was old , and there was farmland all around.

They could definitely find something unconsecrated, which to Lily’s knowledge was everywhere that wasn’t in a cemetery attached to a church.

And if they couldn’t find an actual graveyard, surely Mort or the cinema could help out with props.

Then there was the food. Lily hurried over to her library of inspiration photos – she had whole albums with material she’d sourced for different types of weddings.

Sure, Pinterest might be the done thing these days, but there was something she loved about poring over a magazine and cutting out an image that she loved.

‘So if we’re going non-traditional …’

She slid over one called The Black Album (Please Don’t Sue Me, Metallica) . Lily didn’t actually recall putting together such an album, having typically stayed on the opposite end of the colour palette, but maybe this whole magic switcheroo thing was working in her favour.

‘Ghastly,’ said Desdemona approvingly. ‘For someone so … perky, you do have an exceptional understanding of the macabre ethos we seek to embody.’

‘That’s high praise,’ whispered Ambrose.

‘Complimentary! Complimentary!’ whistled Sunny.

Lily hid a grin behind her own coffee, which she was sipping from a cobweb-patterned mug.

She was doing this whole wedding planning thing, and in uniquely challenging circumstances at that!

Sure, she might be destined never to be chosen as the bride, but look at all these happy couples actively choosing her as their wedding planner.

Lily gave herself an imaginary pat on the back. Self-worth, I love you!

Desdemona and Ambrose flipped through the book, Desdemona jabbing her coffin nails at charcoal-tinged burger buns, squid ink macarons, figs and dark heirloom tomatoes … and, finally, a quadruple chocolate cake decorated with black roses.

Lily was impressed. Contrary to popular belief – or at least, her belief, the black food possibilities were endless.

Well, not endless. But doable. It would be like feeding the opposite of a toddler on a white food diet, something she had experience with now that JoJo, who had trigged the whole marriage dominoes situation amongst Lily’s friends, was now a mother of three and therefore a dino nuggets aficionado.

Lily could probably source most of the food from the local restaurants and The Hot Pot.

She’d just have to make sure there was enough food dye to go around.

‘Excellent thinking,’ said Desdemona, when Lily posited this. ‘I do have a source, if you need it. A former squid biologist.’

A bell tolled at a distant church, saving Lily from having to respond to that. (How did one respond to that?)

‘Thrice,’ murmured Desdemona, eyes wide. She closed Lily’s black food look-book. ‘I’m afraid we must bid you adieu. The hounds must feast.’

‘We need to feed the pugs,’ translated Ambrose.

Well, it was a fair enough reason to take your leave. Lily escorted them out across the newly black-and-white terrazzo floors and back outside, where half a dozen tourists were posing with Mort’s new poodles.

‘At least we have blue skies again.’ Lily averted her eyes from the sight of an old guy sunbathing naked on a sun lounger in one of the flower beds, with only a strategically placed local newspaper saving him from an indecent exposure charge.

Shuddering at the prospect of fair weather, Desdemona opened her parasol with the vigour of a vampire hunter gouging at the undead with a wooden stake. Only in this case the sun was the vampire. Or maybe Desdemona was. Lily had confused herself with her own metaphor.

As Desdemona angled her parasol to avoid as much pesky sun as possible, an older woman wobbled past, dressed in a dramatic frock that she’d topped with a veil and a bouquet of roses. She reminded Lily of someone, but she couldn’t quite place who.

‘I adore your outfit,’ said Desdemona. ‘It’s so delightfully melancholy.’

‘Thanks, love.’ The woman managed a spin on her glittery pumps. She leaned on the bougainvillea-smothered railing outside the shop for balance. ‘It’s our fiftieth anniversary, and we just renewed our vows. I’m Fran. This is my beau, Derrick.’

Lily blinked. Derrick? Fran? She’d heard those names before.

An older man in a flat cap who’d been tying his shoelaces stood and waved at Lily, who suddenly wished smelling salts were something people still kept around.

Maybe she could duck back inside and find something suitable amongst the wedding favours.

Or perhaps Desdemona had some at hand? Someone who wore corsets for fun was surely acquainted with the rousing properties of dilute ammonia.

‘Everything all right, Lily?’ asked Ambrose.

‘All right? All right?’ chirruped Sunny, happily nibbling on Ambrose’s shoulder.

‘Spectacular. Business calls but, um, make sure you grab a macaron at The Hot Pot and let me know what you think. I’ll start scouting locations and will be in touch … tomorrow?’

‘Be sure to scout at night,’ noted Desdemona. ‘I expect verisimilitude.’

‘Verisimilitude,’ sighed Ambrose, quite romantically. (He definitely had a touch of a piratey Baudelaire to him.) ‘I love that word. If we have a daughter, that’s my second choice for a name.’

‘Fabulous,’ said Lily absently. She had, after all, just figured out where she’d seen the passing couple before.

She’d seen them in passing. Literal passing.