Page 48 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Mort

The night had risen proudly, shaking the stars and the giant moon out into an inky blanket that twinkled and shone. Although perhaps that was Mort’s organic sparkling wine talking. And whatever had been in those cookies he’d accepted from Venus’s grandma.

As the night stretched on, the energy of the party roared, then ebbed.

The wedding goers broke off into groups – raucous woo girls flailing wildly in front of the valiant folk group; older people toasting snacks and making bets on whose marshmallows would catch fire; younger folks in the larger tents playing board games and snapping selfies; a PR team shouting about how best to handle the reputational disaster that was trending on social media.

Gracie roved around with her camera, quietly snapping shots of the lamplit decor and the couples snuggled up on the love seats and beanbags – and definitely a few of the shouting marketers.

‘I have some stellar photos of your Grief Guys,’ Gracie told Mort as she came back around, sinking into one of the ring of beanbags that Mort and Reba had claimed. And Sausage, who was sleepy from treats and belly rubs.

‘They did a great job,’ said Mort, with a touch of pride.

‘What a day,’ said Lily, plonking down on a beanbag and wriggling her toes in her convertible shoes (which had been in flats mode since they’d arrived).

She’d spent the whole evening running about consoling distraught family members with alcohol and cake and trying to identify hidden paparazzi like she was playing a game of Among Us.

She yawned hugely, as though sleep were chasing her down.

‘You know what,’ she said, covering her mouth, ‘I’m calling it before I fall asleep here and Gracie snaps an artsy shot of me snoring that ends up at MoMa.’

‘I would never,’ said Gracie, idly. Her grey eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Mostly because I have an exclusivity agreement with LACMA.’

Lily chuckled, then stifled another yawn. ‘All right, off I go. Night, Gracie, Reebs.’ A pause. Then, meaningfully. ‘Night, Mort.’

Mort froze. What had she meant by that? Why the pause? Why the separate address? Had there been invitation in her voice? Or something else? Could she possibly have forgiven him for the other night?

But by the time he’d parsed the sentence, Lily had disappeared into her tent.

‘Ah, you win some, you lose some,’ said Reba, swigging her Irish coffee, which she’d brought along in a thermos and had been topping off throughout the night.

Alas, Premetheus wasn’t equipped to do hot drinks, and The Hot Pot cart on site had been instructed only to do decaffeinated nootropic mushroom brews.

Mort wasn’t sure how to respond to this.

‘Better to do it now than after all the paperwork,’ Reba went on.

Oh. She’d been referring to the wedding, not Lily.

‘Although I do feel bad for all the time the lawyers spent on the SEC filings. Only a bit, though. Lawyers – fuck ’em! Still, could be worse. At least he didn’t die.’

This was true, thought Mort, poking at a gelatinous something that had presumably made its debut as dish of the day at Whispering Waters earlier this week.

‘That’s what happened at my wedding,’ explained Reba, tapping the ornament that hung from her neck. ‘The second time around. The second time, to the same guy. The timeline’s confusing, but the love wasn’t.’

‘Sorry for your loss,’ said Mort. He mulled it over, wondering how anyone could truly commit to love when death was only ever a knock away. ‘Would you do it again?’

Reba stared down at him through her cat’s-eye glasses. ‘Course not, he’s scattered all over the Golden Gate Park. It’d be a logistical nightmare.’

Mort laughed heartily.

Reba did as well – she had no issue laughing at her own jokes.

And fair enough, she was funny as hell. ‘I’d marry my Frank a million times over, even if he died every single time.

He was my person. My crossword finisher, my complaints hearer, my grilled cheese maker.

Great taste in music, terrible taste in footwear, but you can’t have it all.

The worse prospect would’ve been not giving it a shot.

I would’ve missed out on the love of my life, and all because of what?

Fear? Ego? Pettiness about shoes? Bah. Although they were bad.

He wore the same pair of Birkenstocks for thirty years.

Said Jerry Garcia had blessed them. Although that I believe. ’

‘Me too,’ added Gracie.

‘So you know what I think?’ Reba angled her head towards Lily’s tent. ‘I think you should go be with your girl. Repeat after me: fuck it.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Mort quietly.

‘Fuck it!’ cried Reba, waving her hands over her head.

‘Fuck it,’ repeated Mort, more animatedly this time.

‘Fuck it all, we’re all gonna fucking die anyway!’ howled Reba, adding a few coyote howls for emphasis. The wedding guests picked up on her vocalisation, and soon the whole campsite was awash with fiendish howls and calls.

Gracie Nivola, ever the anthropologist, captured it all with her camera.

They were all going to fucking die anyway. Maybe it was Reba’s motivational words, or maybe it was the open bar talking, but something had shifted inside Mort. He gave Reba a peck on the cheek and quietly went over to Lily’s tent.

‘Knock, knock,’ he said, tapping a finger against the tie-dyed fabric.

A few moments of scrabbling, and then Lily pulled aside the tent flap. Her eyes widened. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be running from coyotes or something? They’re out tonight.’

‘Can I come in?’

Lily crawled aside, ushering Mort in. He stooped to avoid hitting his head against the tent ceiling, which although generously pitched, still wasn’t designed for his height.

Only the bridal parties’ tents were – although probably unnecessarily, given that half the wedding party was sitting around murmuring about what this meant for the future of two significant toothpaste empires, and the other half was on a conference call with their C-suites.

‘What a night,’ whispered Lily, who in the soft light of the tent’s Moroccan lamp looked as beautiful as Mort had ever seen her – even clad in the pair of novelty tie-dye pyjamas that was part of each tent’s care package. ‘Is it bad if I’m glad she didn’t go through with it?’

Mort shook his head. ‘Better now than later. Is she okay?’

Lily sprawled over a tie-dyed multi-piece floor-couch – the same as the one that Mort had helped the Grief Guys install in their own tent earlier that day. ‘She’s spending the night at my place. Don’t worry – she’ll take the first helicopter out tomorrow. But it makes you think, doesn’t it.’

‘How so?’ asked Mort, who to be fair, did have some thoughts about the travel habits of billionaires.

‘Well, they’re sort of the opposite of us. On paper, their union was perfect. The same businesses, the same backgrounds, the same goals. All carefully orchestrated for seamless … synergy.’

‘I see that Harvard MBA of yours is being put to good use.’

‘I only went for the sweatshirt. But look at them, and look at us. We’re messy, and unplanned, and our opinions on good design couldn’t be any more divergent. And yet.’

‘And yet,’ agreed Mort, who had never known that such a simple phrase could carry every possibility in the world.

‘And yet …’ Lily fixed her bright blue gaze on him ‘… why are you all the way over there?’

Mort’s heart was thrumming, and he briefly worried about the likelihood of a heart attack. But then: fuck it, if a heart attack was how he went out, then it would all be worth it.

He rustled over to her, moving awkwardly in the confines of the tent.

Lily giggled. ‘You’re like a weird Gothic caterpillar.’

‘ That’s how you’re going to seduce me?’

‘I’m not wearing my contacts,’ added Lily, squinting intently. ‘You’re going to need to come closer.’

Mort did: close enough to see that the top button of her tie-dyed pyjamas was unbuttoned. He was pleased to see that although Reba had committed to tie-dyed everything, she was less exacting about button integrity. ‘How’s that?’

‘Closer,’ said Lily, crooking a finger. ‘My vision is terrible.’

Mort inched forward, mentally counting the buttons on her pyjamas.

‘Oh God, not that close,’ shrieked Lily. She burst out laughing at his startled expression. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. But I do like having you this close.’

Mort couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and kissed her, seeking out her soft lips with his, melting at the sweet taste of her lipstick, yearning for the taste of the rest of her.

As all first kisses – well, second kisses – are, it was a maddening mix of exploration and compromise, pulling back just slightly to avoid bumping teeth even though he wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pull her close – as close as possible.

Lily took the lead for him, dragging a hand hungrily up his cheek and twisting it into his hair. Her eyes were wide as she pulled him down with her to the amply cushioned floor of the tent.

‘Wow, this is too many cushions,’ said Mort, as he fought not to drown in the stack of throw pillows and novelty cushions. ‘It’s worse than the couch in your apartment.’

‘You’ll thank me when you don’t get stabbed in the butt with a stick.’

‘Kinky,’ said Mort, balanced precariously upon a cushioned yoga mat and a Moroccan ottoman.

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Lily. Her breath was hot on his neck as she grazed her lips along his throat and jawline, and Mort thought of the card he’d pulled from Dirty Laundry – the one he’d been too embarrassed to share during his first meeting with the Grief Guys.