Page 38 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Mort sipped his champagne, thinking back on how he’d felt when he’d first crossed paths with Lily.

That giant smile, those sparkling eyes, those ridiculous business cards with the kissing couples that had been his very first introduction to her.

And how she just rolled with everything , no matter what happened.

She’d been unflappable when Derrick and Fran had abruptly carked it at the cinema (and then when they’d come back to life).

She’d handled the switcheroo with surprising aplomb (much better than Mort had, in fact).

And no matter the difficulties her clients hurled her way, she took it all in stride.

‘He’s off with the fairies,’ chuckled Stribley, giving Mort a clap on the back. Mort inhaled his champagne, and burst into a spluttering coughing fit. ‘Look at him, one of us.’

Mort set down his glass and took in the motley group of men lounging around his office.

Between the coffee and the desserts and their shared interest in Mort’s love life, they’d relaxed a little.

He could see a sense of relief in all three of them.

Maybe all they needed was a place to come together.

‘So,’ said Mort. Where to from here? How did you start a conversation with a group of strangers? He was used to delivering the usual polite condolences, but beyond that he had little. He’d always tried not to empathise too much, because otherwise this career would drown him with its pain.

Orson shifted on his seat, spilling his champagne, which to be fair, Mort had overfilled. (Bubbles were hard to anticipate, especially when you were dealing with half-flat champagne.)

‘Sorry,’ said Orson, on the verge of tears as he looked down at the spill.

‘Not to worry,’ said Mort stiffly. He pulled out his desk drawer, which contained his overflow store of handkerchiefs – but then spotted the pink corner of an ice-breaker card game that Lily had given him after listening to one of his more awkward client intake meetings through the grille. Hang on. Perhaps this could be of use.

Handing Orson a black handkerchief (he’d hidden the ones that had turned rainbow in the switcheroo at the bottom of the drawer), he reached for the box of cards, then set it on the table.

He grimaced as he took in the name of the game – Dirty Laundry – but pressed on, proffering the box to the men in front of him.

‘A dear … friend gave this to me. It’s to help us get comfortable talking about our feelings and getting to know each other.’

‘But we already know each other,’ said Stribley warily. ‘We’re sitting here, aren’t we.’

‘We’ve eaten lunch near each other in the same room before,’ added Duggo. ‘We’re old friends.’

‘Good start,’ said Mort slowly. ‘But I think we can go a bit deeper. Let’s start by taking a card. A few cards. I’ll go first.’

Have you ever had sex outside? read the card.

Maybe not.

‘What’s the longest you’ve gone without bathing?’ he said, improvising.

Stribley whistled. ‘A week? No, no, a month when I lived on a boat in Thailand.’

That tracked, thought Mort, who still hadn’t shaken the pong of Stribley’s feet. But maybe you had to have an absence of olfactory sensitivity to work as a plumber.

Orson was aghast. ‘You didn’t even jump in the ocean?’

‘Too many jellyfish.’

Orson shifted his chair away.

‘I’ve always wanted to touch a jellyfish,’ admitted Duggo. ‘But I’m scared of being electrocuted.’ He gave Sausage a solid pat instead.

‘I don’t recommend electrocution,’ agreed Orson.

‘I worked on telegraph poles for a while before I switched to installing TVs.’ He pointed out a burn on his inner wrist. ‘Got a right zap during a storm. My whole life lit up in front of me. Well, I thought it was my life – it was my hair. That’s when I went grey. And the smell! Like bacon frying.’

This was a good start, thought Mort. Gory, and not particularly on topic, but the men were talking. They’d got past the grunting stage. That seemed positive.

‘I’ll go, I’ll go,’ said Orson, brandishing his card. ‘I’ve got a good one. Have you ever streaked? ’

‘Streaked, like past tense of … strike?’ Orson was still stuck on the lightning topic.

‘Like running naked through a sports game,’ said Duggo, helpfully.

‘Oh, I have!’ Stribley’s eyes lit up. ‘It was chess, though – does that count?’

‘I think that counts extra,’ said Mort, chuckling. Perhaps the switcheroo had hit the chess scene at some point as well.

‘Ooh, me next,’ said Stribley ‘Ready? If you had a gang, what would you call it? ’

‘That is good one,’ agreed Duggo. ‘I’ve always wanted to be in a gang. But a nice one.’

‘This could be a gang,’ said Orson thoughtfully. ‘The Grief Guys.’

‘I quite like that,’ said Stribley. ‘Has a ring. What do we do, though?’

‘We channel our grief productively,’ said Duggo. ‘Through public works and stuff.’

Mort leaned back in his chair. This was all going … surprisingly well. Lily was a genius. Well, her card game was a genius. He’d have to email the inventor and let them know that they’d single-handedly helped form a gang. (A nice one.)

Mort’s phone buzzed in his pocket, quite insistently. And then again. Oh shit. It was Aunt Dot from Rerunning Up That Hill. He’d forgotten all about Barbarella !

‘I hate to cut this short,’ said Mort, slapping his thighs in the universal sign of well, it’s getting late , ‘but I need to get to the cinema. The piano calls.’

Stribley scooped the remnants of a diamond of baklava from his cup with a spoon and devoured the squelchy mess. ‘Can we … come too?’

Mort glanced around at the wrinkled, hopeful faces of the men he’d spent the past few hours chatting with. Why not? They’d bonded so well over their grief and stories and bottomless appetite for coffee and cookies and flat champagne. And besides, the walk to the cinema was good exercise.

‘Get your cardigans, Grief Guys,’ he said. ‘We’re heading up the hill.’