Page 23 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Lily

At least Lily had all day to finalise the plans.

Which were extensive. Channelling her inner goth took a good deal of work.

Honestly, finding her inner goth had been a large part of it; Lily had been one of the few kids in her class who had skipped the phase, opting for an ethereal theatre kid vibe instead.

Hand pressed to her forehead, she’d swanned around in full-length pastel gowns, climbing every balcony in sight and sighing theatrically.

She’d promptly discarded the affectation when the hem of one of her gowns had caught on the non-slip tread on a step, leaving her half-naked above a major road during peak-hour traffic.

The police had arrived, worried for her safety. And her pride.

Still scarred from the experience, which (along with her bare butt) had made the local news, Lily had opted for a three-quarter LBD with bell sleeves that doubled as pockets. (Said sleeves had a handy drawstring in case she needed to reel them in to avoid a repeat of the stair-catching situation.)

She felt incredibly underdressed next to Desdemona, who wore a majestic velvet and tulle mermaid gown and stacked boots so tall that she could conceivably dunk a basketball without having to leave the ground.

(Alexander McQueen would have been proud, and perhaps a little scared.) The bride’s eyes were sharp with expertly executed liner, and her lips were a matte black so deep that they swallowed stars.

Briony, the event photographer, spun around Desdemona with a massive camera on a gimbal.

Briony was a thin, austere-looking individual who looked as though she’d come off the set for a film steeped in German Expressionism.

(This was because she actually had – it turned out that Desdemona was an esteemed independent film director, and Briony was her director of photography.

Tonight’s wedding was in part supported by a film grant, and would air at Rerunning Up That Hill in a few weeks’ time, with piano improvisation provided by Mort.)

‘Lovely touch with the black carpet.’ Desdemona nudged the carpet roll with a toe. Lily was astonished she could even lift her feet in those boots. The woman must be a powerhouse in the gym. ‘I might repurpose it for the film premiere.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lily. ‘There was a leftover bolt from the seamstress who leased the shop before me.’

The familiar rumble of Mort’s hearse shook the light-studded streets.

‘Your chariot,’ said Lily, with a grin.

Desdemona nodded approvingly. ‘Now this is how one travels on to the next stage in life.’

Pulling the hearse around in front of them, Mort climbed out, looking oddly … shevelled. His black tux was impeccable – and set off with a black and red paisley bow tie – and his usually tousled hair was neatly combed. Was that product?

‘You did your hair,’ noted Lily, impressed.

And damn, he smelled so good. Unless that was cedar from a coffin she was smelling, in which case … okay, he still smelled so good.

Mort scoffed. ‘It’s Friday the 13th. Not dressing up would be most improper.’

He paused, taking in Lily’s uncharacteristically monochrome outfit. ‘You look … lovely.’

These were effusive words coming from Mort. Lily tried to swallow back the enormous grin that threatened to take over her whole face. This was Desdemona’s night, not hers. ‘Thanks, but it’s just the moonlit beauty of our bride reflecting on to me.’

Said moonlit bride was presently posing in front of a decorative lamppost like something out of a French horror film. But she did look great.

Mort popped the back of the hearse, which creaked open deliciously to reveal a profusion of black satin cushions arranged in the shape of a coffin.

Behind the cushions was a wall of black roses sourced from Whoops-a-Daisy (whose treasure map stamp was a dried daisy nested in acrylic), arranging them so that they filled the back of the hearse in a solid black wall of petals.

Quoth the raven: Evermore , was spelled out in spidery writing atop the roses. (This had been Ambrose’s suggestion.)

Lily squeezed Mort’s arm; the display was the epitome of the macabre. It was perfect.

Clopping forward on her astonishing boots, Desdemona clapped her hands over her mouth – although carefully, so as not to ruin her purple-lined lipstick – overcome with emotion at Ambrose’s thoughtful addition to the celebration.

‘It’s deliciously sombre,’ she whispered. ‘The soul aches at the very sight.’

‘Let me know when you’re ready,’ called Mort from the driver’s seat, as Lily adjusted Desdemona’s hem so that Briony could snap a series of shots of the bride in repose. Desdemona snatched up one of the roses and held it to her throat, inhaling deeply.

‘Ah, the sweet scent of the night, of the little deaths it offers,’ she murmured.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ whispered Mort as Lily buckled up next to him. ‘I had an issue with a body. It was a whole thing.’

Desdemona was high on the scent of the roses she’d been huffing (maybe Lily shouldn’t have spritzed them with all that hairspray as a preserving agent). ‘Mort, tell me,’ she murmured. ‘How many corpses have made the journey back here?’

‘Hundreds,’ said Mort, crawling down Jupiter Street at a speed so slow it was surely an arrestable offence. ‘Some of them couples.’

‘How romantic,’ breathed Desdemona dreamily. ‘Heading back to the earth together, becoming one with the mushrooms …’

Lily cranked the stereo, which was preloaded with a goth rock playlist she’d spent hours putting together as she worked on the ‘sky’ chunk of the jigsaw puzzle Gramps had assigned her.

She had a fairly solid area of blue on her upstairs table, and a newfound appreciation for fuzzy guitar and nihilistic lyrics.

‘I never pegged you as a Ministry fan.’ Mort braked for a tourist who was a solid three metres away from the road and could therefore conceivably do a running jump onto the hood.

‘What?’ Lily danced along in her seat to the amazingly Eighties drumbeat. ‘What part of me doesn’t suggest I live my life like every day is Halloween?’

‘You really embody each wedding you work on. It’s … impressive.’

‘Thanks. And you do a lot for the dead denizens of Mirage-by-the-Sea.’

As the hearse inched along, Lily leaned out the window, marvelling at the giant moon that hung like a very brave trapeze artist in the mist-shrouded sky.

‘Perfect for Friday the 13th,’ she mused.

‘Here.’ Mort pressed a button. The sunroof opened, giving Lily whatever the opposite of the bird’s-eye-view to the moon was. She reclined her seat, staring up at it.

‘What an idyllic night to come together as one,’ whispered Desdemona from behind her.

Lily shot a glance at Mort, then hastily averted her eyes as she realised that he was doing the same thing.

‘Watch the road,’ she murmured in a sing-song voice.

As the hearse climbed the top of the hill, the Spanish Mission rose up before them, its quaint arches and massive trees reaching up at the sky in celebration.

‘Almost there,’ said Lily, producing a makeup compact from her purse. ‘Are we ready?’

‘Deadly ready,’ said Desdemona.

Lily climbed through to the back of the vehicle, gently pushing the roses aside.

She cracked open the compact, then grimaced.

The thick, cake-like makeup was not what Desdemona had handed her earlier that evening.

Casket Case was tooled in silver on the front of the compact.

Shit. It was Mort’s mortuary makeup. The switcheroo was at work.

Desdemona gasped, then clasped her hands to her throat. ‘Where did you get that? It’s all the rage after Kat Kadaver showcased it on TikTok. It’s been sold out for months.’

‘And it’s … all yours!’ said Lily brightly. ‘A wedding gift from me. Oh look! There’s even a lipstick.’

She passed Desdemona a matte pink lipstick ( Frigid Fluid ) that didn’t quite seem the bride’s style until Desdemona gave another gasp – ‘The lipstick hue from The Corpse Bride ! You’ve thought of everything!’

‘It’s my special brand of magic.’ Lily carefully adjusted Desdemona’s gown in preparation for the bride’s arrival at the wildflower field. ‘Now let’s get your cape on.’

‘I’ve got the step stool.’ Mort came around with a child’s mourning chair, which was not the chair that Lily had sourced.

At least the switcheroo was working for this particular wedding, she thought, as Desdemona waxed excitedly about olden-day mourning rituals.

It was the others that were going to be more of an issue.

But, she thought wistfully, as a shooting star launched itself overhead, maybe they’d have this whole spell reversed by then.

When Desdemona appeared against the giant studio-style lights that Lily had borrowed from Rerunning Up That Hill, a murmur arose among the small knot of guests like the flapping of a cave full of bats – which to be fair, was probably the vibe they were going for.

The bride’s black beaded corset skimmed her hips, making the explosion of her tulle mermaid skirt all the more eye-catching.

A beaded floor-length cape in matching tulle clung to her shoulders like the most extravagant raven wings.

Ambrose stood at the far end of the field by the gravestones, which Lily had carefully lit with additional cinema lights.

(‘We’re going for a spooky Ed Wood vibe,’ she’d told Dot, who had needed little coaxing.) He wore a majestic black velvet tuxedo over a purple silk shirt studded with skull buttons, and a canted brimmed hat that straddled the line between pirate and steampunk. (In a good way.)

Sunny the budgie perched happily on his shoulder, nibbling sweetly at Ambrose’s chain-link earring, which swung from his left lobe like a miniature obstacle course.

Meanwhile, beside him, two pugs – one in a top hat and the other in a pinstriped vest – panted happily from black satin cushions, their curly tails waggling.