Page 45 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Lily

Well, it was turning out to be an interesting day.

Lily had failed to reverse the switcheroo, but she had brought Veronica and Helmut together.

Knowing that new love needed time alone to properly take root – after all, she was living the experience first-hand – she’d left them to their picnic not long after Mort had raced off, muttering something about a graveside vigil.

Of course, Lily had her own obligations: Venus’s wedding was this afternoon, and Lily’s phone battery was already redlining from the gazillion text messages she’d received about it, as well as a series of cryptic emoji-filled ones from her cousin Tessa, who had presumably given her phone to one of their younger cousins to mess around on. (Never a good idea, Tessa.)

Ah, there came another message – a horribly mistyped one from Reba, who was swinging by to pick Lily up in the Kombi. Lily could only hope that she’d used voice-to-text, because otherwise Reba was in no state to drive.

Quickly changing into a floral midi dress with an embroidered peace sign across the bodice and donning her convertible heels, Lily hurried down the leafy, fairy-light-studded laneway to the tiny parking lot behind the shops.

The jangling tones of the Grateful Dead blasting (Lily could feel the essence of the Nextdoor group gathering around her in neighbourly indignation), the bright yellow Kombi van screeched to a halt next to Lily’s Miata.

A cloud of smoke billowed from it as Reba rolled down the window, her cat’s-eye glasses flashing as she poked her head out. The woman looked like she’d rolled around in a set of marbled endpapers. Or acid papers.

Reba pointed at the side door with a heavily beringed finger. ‘Lily, babes! Hop on up!’

Lily yanked open the door, climbed up into the rickety van and plonked down on the velvet bench seat, which was smothered in tie-dye throw pillows and grandma rugs.

Every inch of the vehicle was decorated with vibrant fabrics and brand posters; even the roof was adorned with a psychedelic blanket that looked like a portal to another plane of experience.

‘Hey there,’ said Gracie Nivola, from the far end of the bench seat.

She wore a simple pale blue sundress and a silver headband, without even a dash of makeup on her face, and would still outshine every single person at the wedding.

How did the Nivolas do it? Had they made a bargain with the devil on a crossroads late at night?

Lily suspected she knew why Venus had hired Gracie to be behind the camera rather than in the bridal party. ‘Love the shoes.’

‘Thanks! They’re convertible.’ Lily demonstrated.

Impressed, Gracie snapped a photo.

‘Where’s your fella?’ shouted Reba over a particularly noodly guitar riff. She jabbed the accelerator, sending the clunky van roaring out onto the backroads.

‘Mort? He’s not my …’ Lily paused. ‘He has funeral stuff.’

Lily felt a pang as she glanced back at the empty spot where the hearse was usually parked.

She’d been hoping for an excuse to invite Mort along to the hippie wedding.

It was going to be utterly ridiculous, and she knew that Mort would have plenty of commentary to offer about the on-site florist and the house-sized custom tents.

And it was only fair that he got to see what had become of the smashed plates.

And perhaps the inside of one of the house-sized custom tents.

Ahem, Lily.

Reba snorted as she hauled on the steering wheel. ‘You two, with all your beating-around-the-bush nonsense. You should go for it before one of you dies.’

Lily blinked.

‘It’s kind of a personal crusade with her,’ whispered Gracie. ‘Her husband Frank died on their wedding night.’

‘Second wedding night,’ corrected Reba. ‘But the moral still stands.’

As the Kombi puttered around the cresting hills and coasting valleys of the farmland that surrounded Mirage-by-the-Sea, Lily realised they weren’t far from Gramps’s place.

There it was: the gothic Victorian with its rickety chimneys and dark foliage.

Although the lawn was looking good today. Hang on – was that Mort’s hearse?

‘Pull in here,’ she told Reba. ‘Just for a second.’

As the Kombi rolled up, Sausage raced towards them, barking valiantly in between awkwardly standing on his ears. It looked like the Grief Guys were here.

‘Hey, Lily.’ Orson stood, rubbing his back. He held a weeding tool, and was surrounded by the corpses of dandelions. ‘Looking for Mort? Mort! Hey, Mort!’

‘Here.’ Reba leaned on the Kombi’s horn, startling a family of squirrels.

Mort came over, looking deliciously scruffy with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair mussed as usual. He pulled down the pair of Ray-Bans he was wearing. ‘Lily? How did you find a worse vehicle than the Miata?’

‘How do you feel about being a plus-one?’ shouted Reba.

Lily hid her face behind her hand. ‘We could do with the extra help, if the Grief Guys aren’t too busy here?’

‘We’re coming back tomorrow,’ said Duggo, who’d appeared on the porch with Stribley. ‘This place has years’ worth of work to do on it. But I’m up for a wedding, if you are, Stribs?’

‘What about Gramps?’ asked Lily. ‘He’s welcome, too.’

‘I’ve got a date with a jigsaw,’ shouted Gramps from the front door. ‘I just found where your sky bit fits with the edge pieces, Lily! I’m a roll, and I can’t stop now!’

‘Come on, hop in,’ called Reba. ‘The dog’s welcome, too. If he doesn’t mind some cat hair. My Ember sheds like you wouldn’t believe.’

The Grief Guys piled in, and off they went, coasting along on the plaintive strains of Jerry Garcia’s vocals.

‘It’s no Woodstock, but it’s close. And probably with a bigger budget,’ said Reba, as they pulled up to the event site, a vast estate zoned as farmland for the tax breaks.

But today at least it was a spot for hippie glamping, and Reba had been busy tie-dyeing every inch of its fifty-acre footprint.

Dozens of personal tents swept out like rainbow fractals from a central clearing demarcated by astonishing floral arrangements that emerged naturally (and expensively) from the ground.

Beanbags had been carefully lined up in angled rows around the ceremonial arch, and a variety of stations offered all the booze and entertainment you could dream of.

Even the Portaloos – which were more like portable, multi-stall bathrooms – were a work of (hand-painted) art.

‘I hear that from a helicopter’s-eye-view it looks like a very trippy crop circle,’ said Lily, waving hello to the lighting guy who was busy stringing Moroccan lanterns from the sculpted trees.

‘Ooh,’ said Duggo, holding Sausage up to the window so the short-legged dog could get a better view. ‘How do we get a peek from all the way up there?’

‘Be born rich,’ said Orson. ‘Unless there are drones. Are there drones?’

‘I don’t do drones.’ Gracie tapped her camera. ‘I’m strictly analogue.’

‘I could hook you up.’ Orson dug around in his overall pockets for a business card. (The one he produced looked lightly electrocuted.) ‘I do AV of all sorts.’

‘Thanks, but I have a vision.’

Oh, to have that facility for shutting down men when they tried to turn you around to their ways of doing things.

Lily had suffered through plenty of girls’ nights that were suddenly gate-crashed by guys who couldn’t fathom that a night out could be complete without a dose of testosterone.

A confident Gracie-style ‘fuck off’ would’ve gone a long way.

‘And out we get,’ exclaimed Reba, putting the Kombi into park with a crunch. She offered around a pungent tin of weed gummies. ‘Anyone for a gummy? No? Well, more for Reebs.’

The little gang hauled themselves out of the Kombi, waiting for Lily to go through her clipboard and assign them tasks.

(Watching the incense during wind gusts, assisting wayward guests back to the camp, venomous snake spotting and reporting, and poop shovelling in the event that guests’ lapdogs failed to adhere to the designated pooping area.

Sausage looked quite indignant at this last one.)

‘Basically, if you see anyone looking anything other than delighted, offer to help,’ she said. ‘I promise to keep you all in food, cake, alcohol and goodwill.’

‘The good stuff,’ said Orson approvingly.

Reba held up a finger. ‘And before you go: uniforms.’

She dragged over a giant basket, digging through it for tie-dyed outfits for each of the Grief Guys.

‘ And we get free clothes.’ Stribley struck a pose in his new rainbow button-down shirt. ‘Living the high life.’

‘And you, Mort.’ Reba tossed a purplish blazer in Mort’s direction.

Absolutely not , thought Lily.

‘Absolutely not,’ said Mort, just as she’d anticipated.

‘At least do a tie. Lily can help you with it.’

‘I know how to …’ began Mort, then trailed off. ‘All right,’ he said gruffly.

He stooped, his dark gaze thoughtful as he let Lily gently tie a double Windsor for him.

She was mindful of her hands on his shoulders, against the warmth of his throat, as they had been during the night he’d come to visit her apartment.

A frisson of electricity sparkled through her as she smoothed the paisley-print fabric.

‘Suits you,’ she said, straightening the knot and trying to ignore the intrusive voice telling her to use the tie to yank Mort towards her.

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Mort.

What if she kissed him? What then? What if she just pulled him off into one of the carefully crafted flower beds and pinned him down?

What if she finally figured out a label for this unusual situation they were in, so she wouldn’t have to keep calling Mort the ‘guy next door with whom she happened to share a business name’.

But no, this was Venus’s day, not hers.

‘These two,’ said Reba as Gracie ducked in, snapping a photo of Lily and Mort before Mort could put up a hand in protest.