Page 29 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

‘He means it, too,’ said another old-timer Mort recognised as Lorraine, a hand tentatively on a chessboard rook.

(Lorraine’s husband of fifty years, whom everyone had nicknamed Rick the Prick, had died three years ago.

Bill the coroner had had some suspicions, but figured that Lorraine deserved a few years of peace.) ‘You know Edward was a boxer back in the day. He had his share of knockouts.’

‘Knocked out a few of my teeth, too.’ Edward loosened his dentures in demonstration.

‘Edward, when did you last clean those?’ snapped Lorraine, horrified. She pulled out her own falsies, showing off their bright, white enamel. ‘That’s what they should look like. I’ve had dogs with cleaner teeth than that.’

Edward waved his yellowed dentures about. Both Mort and Lily ducked for cover. ‘They didn’t have the off-brand solution at the bodega. So I’ve been using coffee. It’s hot – kills the germs.’

Standing out of the line of spittle fire, Lily reached into her handbag and dashed forward, dropping a handful of dental hygiene supplies in Edward’s lap. Then she retreated. ‘Something in there should do the trick.’

‘That’s right – this wedding of yours is for a toothpaste magnate, isn’t it.’ Mort checked his shirt for wayward saliva.

Lily cocked her head, giving Mort the look of someone who’d caught a co-worker leaving the bathrooms without washing their hands.

‘Hang on. Have you been listening through the grille? Is that how you knew about the plates? Because it’s how I knew about the photo booth.

And how I know that you have an ungodly amount of hummus delivered each week. ’

Mort found himself wishing that Mirage-by-the-Sea were in a liquefaction zone, because he could really do with the earth swallowing him up right now.

‘Who doesn’t like hummus?’ he protested weakly.

‘Anyway, the whole toothpaste thing seems to be less of a wedding, more of a merger,’ said Lily. ‘They’re talking about combining their surnames and adding “Corp” as a middle name.’

Lorraine moved her rook. ‘Well, if the bride needs to make it look like an accident, tell her to call me. I know what’s up.’

Lily grabbed Mort’s hand. ‘Could we … um …’

‘That’s right. Our meeting,’ said Mort pointedly.

Before the two of them overheard something that couldn’t be unheard, Mort ushered Lily out of the main room and over to the reception area, where a cheerful dark-haired nurse with half a dozen novelty pins on her shirt waved at them.

Lily, apparently having found a kindred soul, showed off the patch on her pink knitted bag.

‘I love your Eat-the-Rich Hungry Caterpillar!’ she said.

‘And I love your Fuck-Off-I’m-Sparkling unicorn!’ said Crystal. (She was wearing a sparkly nametag.)

‘I do weddings. I’d give you my card, but I’m having some new ones made. There was a bit of a printing error with the last ones.’

(Said printing error being that the switcheroo had turned them from the kissing couple display into a bouquet of roses that wilted when you folded the card. Mort personally thought that the switcherooed version was quite fetching, but Lily did not agree and was using the box as a doorjamb instead.)

‘If my boyfriend ever proposes, I’m calling you,’ said Crystal. ‘Although it’s been eight years, so I’m not getting my hopes up. We’ve had the talk three times, and you know, I might be ready to move on to more committed pastures.’

‘I’m here either way,’ said Lily. ‘Even if you just want to eat your feelings – I get so many cakes in for tasting. It’s great.’

‘Deal.’ Crystal turned to Mort. ‘How’ve you been doing, Mort?

I’ve missed the last few shows at the cinema because of life stuff – although I did hear about Derrick and Fran.

I heard it was monkshood poisoning from a bespoke perfume.

Almost enough to be deadly, but not quite.

Divine intervention for the win. Are you going to Derrick’s sermon this weekend? ’

‘Maybe,’ said Mort generously. This cult thing was progressing as quickly as the switcheroo.

‘Don’t wear shoes if you do. How’s Gramps?’

‘About eight thousand pieces into a new jigsaw puzzle,’ said Mort.

‘We’re helping,’ explained Lily. ‘He picked a doozy of a puzzle – I’m officially putting myself in charge of the next one.

’ She pulled out the puzzle-in-a-jar she’d bought from Then Again.

‘I don’t even know what this is meant to be, but there’s no way it’s worse than the one he’s currently working on.

Look – patches of contrasting colour! Outlines! ’

‘Well, there’s plenty of space in Beverley Alberi’s old unit for a jigsaw puzzle collection. Number 51. Still interested?’

Mort felt the floor wobble beneath him. With Beverley’s funeral looming large in his memory, it was impossible not to make the connection between this place and what came after.

‘We’ll pop our heads in,’ said Lily gently, filling the space that Mort, in the moment, simply couldn’t. ‘But we’re actually looking for … what was their name again, Mort?’

‘Jefferson,’ stammered Mort. ‘Is he around?’

‘Airplane or Starship?’ joked Crystal. She gestured behind her, waggling her sparkly nails. ‘He’s in the kitchen, whipping up some chocolate pudding. Go right on through. See you Saturday!’

Mort and Lily’s footsteps echoed as they walked together down a wood-panelled hallway filled with fake trees and residents’ artwork. Their fingers brushed not entirely accidentally as they navigated around clay sculptures of small dogs or paper chains decorated with loved ones’ names.

Mort tried not to notice the numbers on the rooms they passed, but according to the decorative numbers hot-glued to plump ovals of fabric on each door, they were presently in the 40s, which meant that Gramps’s possible future apartment was just steps away.

47. Now 48, 49 … 50.

As they reached 51, Mort stopped short. Lily paused beside him, putting a gentle hand on his wrist.

‘Do you want to go in?’ she asked. ‘At least see what it’s like and whether it’s a good fit for Gramps?’

Mort ran a finger over the polished wood of the doorframe.

How many hands had done the same thing over the years, rallying themselves for a visit with someone ailing, or someone who might look at them with confused eyes?

Lily was right. Either the space would feel right , and Mort would feel comforted knowing that Gramps was in good hands, or he’d know he had to figure out something else.

A motorised chair lift for the rickety stairs, perhaps (after Mort had the stairs repaired, of course), or maybe a Roomba he could program to help with all the puzzle pieces under the couches.

Oh, and perhaps some extra buttressing for the gargoyles that kept falling off in the middle of the night.

‘You could always move back in with him,’ suggested Lily. ‘Or I could. Imagine all the jigsaw puzzles we could do together. Just so long as he let me open the curtains. And maybe paint the walls.’

‘Ah, you want to perform a switcheroo on poor Gramps, huh?’ teased Mort, trying to find levity in the moment. ‘It wasn’t enough that you took over the funeral parlour?’

Lily grinned. ‘To paraphrase a classic, I see a black door and I want to paint it pink. Like this one.’

‘It’s cherry,’ Mort pointed out.

‘Yes, but is it cheery ?’

More to shut Lily up than anything, Mort pushed open the door – just a crack at first, then all the way.

The apartment was sunny and soft. Light streamed in through the lace curtains on the far wall, playing off the cushioned furniture and gleaming against a gold mirror in the shape of a sun.

Home sweet home , read the throw pillow on the armchair in the corner.

A family of padded fabric ducks migrated up the pastel wallpaper, apparently trying to escape the lavender chenille bedspread (and the heart-shaped packets of lavender potpourri in a dish on the side table).

Lily chuckled. ‘Wow, Gramps would hate this.’

‘He really would,’ admitted Mort.

‘Especially the ducks,’ they both said simultaneously.

Mort sat down on the bed, feeling its aged springs sag under his weight – it was designed for tiny elderly people, not thirty-year-old funeral directors with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Setting her handbag on the floor with a fearsome whump – had she brought the plates with her?

– Lily sat beside him, a puddle of colourful fabric next to Mort’s all-black outfit.

Her arm grazed his, infusing him with a warmth that scared him.

One day, it would be Lily in a bed like this. And then what?

‘Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.’ Lily took Mort’s hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.

There must have been an ungrounded electrical wire in the room, because Mort felt a zap.

He stared down at their twined fingers, at how slim and tiny Lily’s, with their rainbow nails, were next to his.

He wasn’t sure how did she did it, but her presence made everything feel brighter and more delightful somehow.

Not that he was asking that of her – it wasn’t someone else’s job to put you in a good mood – but there was something about those joyful blue eyes and the way she cocked her head and the sheer effort she put into connecting with everything around her that made Mort want to be, well, less grumpy and more …

grateful. Grateful was the word he was after.

Putting his free hand over hers, he squeezed back.

‘I’m thinking that Gramps should stay in his house,’ said Mort, trying to avoid the gaze of a kitschy ceramic cat wearing huge glasses. ‘Somehow, even if it means getting him a butler.’

‘Or a nice European au pair,’ added Lily.

‘But since the reason we came up here is for your spearmint-peppermint toothpaste merger or whatever it is, let’s go talk to Jefferson about catering your event. Trust me, he’ll be perfect. The pickiest eater I’ve ever met, and firmly opposed to all texture.’

‘How does he feel about different ingredients touching?’ asked Lily.

‘The same way he feels about the word “mouthfeel”: strongly.’

‘I love him already.’