Page 46 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Blushing from the extreme turn her thoughts had just taken, Lily checked the time on her phone. ‘All right, everyone, let’s get to it. Reba, can you make sure the Grief Guys have a tent?’

‘On it. Who wants to help me pop one up?’

Stribley and Duggo followed after the colourful hippie as she led them off between the rows of colourful tents. Sausage trotted after them, ears dragging and tail wagging. (Gracie snapped a brilliant action shot of the little dog leaping over a leaf.)

‘This is going to be quite the event,’ said Mort, as Lily took him past a set of plush couches dressed with plump cushions and surrounded by giant vegan leather ottomans.

‘Look at you, Mr Compliments. Here’s Premetheus, by the way,’ said Lily, as they rounded what Reba had dubbed the Reclining Tent and came upon the glossy food truck.

Mort waved at Jefferson, who was pouring an amuse-bouche for an extremely thin, extremely wealthy-looking woman. Although Lily supposed that everything on the menu could be considered an amuse-bouche.

The remaining few hours before the nuptials quickly disappeared into an array of last-minute tasks and frantic questions about where best to land a helicopter.

Throughout it all, Lily was extremely mindful that Venus had not yet made an appearance, and worse, wasn’t answering her texts.

Or even her Instagram messages. Perhaps she was just still in hair and makeup.

Or a hyperbaric chamber. Or whatever it was that the rich did to prepare for a major event.

When Venus finally did show up, she was munching on the tin of gummies that Reba had been offering around earlier.

She did look fabulous – she wore a macramé gown that bridged the gap between Greek goddess and hippie idol, and her hair spilled in gentle waves so far down her back that it almost touched the ground.

(Nature had received some assistance from a hair stylist. Or at the very least a special prenatal vitamin for the very rich that offered miraculous hair growth properties.)

But she also looked ashen and peaked – more like someone who might be graveside at one of Mort’s funerals than a bride about to join her partner in a lifetime of love.

‘Low iron,’ Venus explained airily, when Lily asked if she was okay. ‘It’s the low-everything diet I’m on. The wan look is terrible in person, but photographs well. Which is vital, because I did hire a few paparazzi to take pictures on the down-low.’

She must have caught Lily’s surprised look, because she added, ‘Don’t worry – you’ll never pick them out from the other guests. They do this sort of thing all the time. Ooh, the revellers are starting to arrive.’

Sleek tour buses in hippie livery were pulling onto the property, interspersed by Bentleys and very low sports cars nervously chugging over the divots in the field that had been designated for parking.

The sky was dotted with helicopters waiting for the chance to land, their blades churning the sky.

‘That’s Desmond,’ said Venus, pointing out one of the helicopters with a tone that rather suggested she wanted it to crash.

Hoping the gummies went to work sooner rather than later, Lily scooted the bride off to her dressing room tent, which was magnificently decked out with a huge antique dresser, hanging mirrors that shimmered on golden chains, and elaborate clusters of fat candles and Moroccan lanterns.

She let the tent flap fall – a nervous bride deserved her privacy.

Meanwhile, the guests had begun trickling onto the grounds, dressed in dramatic, designer bohemian style, as if they’d all been diverted from Coachella with promises of better drugs and cooler weather.

Air kisses and air hugs flitted about, as did gossipy murmurings about affairs and second homes and bankruptcies and patents.

Back from putting up their tent, the Grief Guys helped direct the guests to the eclectic ensemble of beanbags, couches and Adirondack chairs.

Lily, meanwhile, gathered the folk musicians who’d been lounging around in one of the tents, ushering them to the thatched riser near the altar.

Ah, and there was the groom, who was changing from his work attire into a pair of tan trousers (with braces) and a smart grey sports jacket.

And a pair of Allbirds, of course. It was an impressive costume change given that he managed the whole thing while dictating a cease-and-desist letter over the phone.

Now there was just the matter of the celebrant. Where was she?

Lily checked her emails, her texts, her social media messages, but to no avail.

‘Can I help?’ asked Mort, who’d returned from Premetheus with a bamboo container of something liquidy in hand.

‘The celebrant is AWOL, and there are only so many Lord Huron knockoff songs you can play before people get restless,’ whispered Lily.

‘Can you get her on the walkie-talkie?’ asked Mort.

‘No luck.’ With Mort in tow, Lily wandered the fields, looking for signs of the colourfully named – and clad – celebrant.

Rainbow Soleil (the moniker of someone who was almost certainly on the lam from decisions made in a past life) was nowhere to be seen.

But hang on, there was a whole lot of giggling coming from Reba’s Kombi. And smoke as well.

Biting back a grin, Lily knocked on the door, then yanked it open.

The cloud that poured out was enough to set off every smoke alarm within a five-mile radius.

‘We were doing a cleansing ceremony,’ explained Reba, whose eyes were tellingly red.

Rainbow Soleil, who was dressed precisely as her name suggested, coughed. ‘We ran out of sage,’ she rasped.

‘I think you’ve got it handled,’ said Mort drily.

‘The guests are seated,’ explained Lily, handing Rainbow an earpiece. ‘Are you ready?’

‘To join two like-minded souls in matrimony? The goddess that runs through me says yes indeed.’

They hurried over to the ceremony area, Rainbow Soleil taking her place by the altar.

Lily hurried in to fetch Venus, who was swigging from a bottle of organic, sugar-free sparkling wine.

Spotting Lily, Venus dabbed self-consciously at the front of her dress, where a good deal of said bottle now made its home. At least she wasn’t drinking rosé.

‘Ready?’ said Lily, donning her biggest, brightest smile.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Venus, with the excitement of someone preparing to clean cat vomit out of the carpet.

Lily held her smile, hoping the vaguely excited Venus of the early wedding planning meetings would return. Because if not, well, perhaps Mort should take over the formalities.

The folk band (who had some membership crossover from the cowboy wedding) struck up a jaunty tune, and the guests ooh ed lightly as Venus, shoulders back and a bouquet of California poppies in hand, walked quietly down an aisle thatched with pink pampas grass fronds and woven grass mats.

Buoyed by the background notes of the band, Venus took her place before the dramatic floral altar, smiling nervously at Desmond, whose phone was ringing in his pocket.

‘Just a sec,’ he muttered, glancing down at his phone.

This was going well. Distraction. Lily needed a distraction.

They’d start with the doves.

Lily signalled for the dovecote owner (known locally as the Bird Man) to release the doves from their tie-dye-draped enclosure.

Giving her a thumbs up, the Bird Man pulled back the latch and urged the cooing birds to their freedom.

Only they weren’t cooing birds of the sweet and gentle turtledove variety.

They were huge and black, and their caws struck up murmurs of confusion among the crowd.

‘Portentous,’ muttered Mort.

‘Rainbow and I have a bet going on this whole thing,’ whispered Reba.

Mort was intrigued. ‘Isn’t that a conflict of interest?’

‘You two,’ warned Lily.

As the crows flapped and cawed overhead, Gracie stepped forward with her camera, snapping a series of shots of Venus cowering beneath raised hands.

Desmond, finger held up in the international symbol for hang on, with you in a sec , was on his phone typing an urgent email.

Or at least he was until a crow tried to dive-bomb his lifted finger, thinking it was a workaholic worm.

A smattering of confused applause broke out.

‘It’s … good luck,’ called Lily. Of course the switcheroo had to strike now, when she was finally having some success taking Venus’s attention away from her frigidly cold feet. ‘Two crows is good luck. They symbolise transformation and … fate.’

‘But there are six,’ said Reba matter-of-factly. ‘Six symbolises death.’

Lily shot Reba a look. ‘It’s a regional interpretation,’ she called. ‘It doesn’t have to mean death.’

Reba flapped a hand smothered in chunky rings. ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’

‘Just go on with the vows,’ whispered Lily into her walkie-talkie.

‘Roger,’ said Rainbow Soleil, a hand over her earpiece. ‘Over.’ She spun a circle, her kaleidoscopic robes flaring. The sequinned peace symbols on her scarf flashed, and Lily crossed her fingers that they wouldn’t attract the crows.

‘Oops, too far,’ said the celebrant, putting a hand on the massive wildflower arch for balance. ‘Dizzy. Let me unwind for a second. All right, got it.’

‘This is the best you could get on a multimillion-dollar budget?’ whispered Mort.

‘The first four cancelled,’ whispered back Lily.

‘I had to get this one from Celebrant City. She doesn’t believe in currency, so I had to pay her in Phish tickets.

And Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice-cream. She also doesn’t believe in the restrictions of temporality, so we’re lucky she’s here on the right day. And mostly the right time.’

Mort chuckled. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

‘With flair,’ said Lily, with a wink.

‘No arguments here,’ said Mort appreciatively.

Lily beamed. ‘Rightly so.’

‘Wonderful souls!’ shouted Rainbow Soleil.