Page 51 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Mort

‘You’ve got some lipstick on your beard,’ whispered Lily, as she settled Mort into position on the sleigh.

Fortunately the beard was robust enough that it hid the blush creeping over Mort’s cheeks.

Although that might have been an allergic reaction to the extreme amounts of glue they’d used to re-secure said beard after things had got a little carried away in the photo booth.

Not that Mort minded. He was perfectly happy to reprise the events of the previous night without someone barging in screaming about a corpse.

That, and he was delighted to know that Lily hadn’t regretted the whole debacle – that she hadn’t run off the way she’d told him that she’d always done in the past. That she still felt comfortable enough to show up on his doorstep.

Even if it had been with a Santa costume in hand.

Even if their days together would, a few months from now, come to an end. It was only a matter of time before Angela pushed the applications for next year’s discounted small business opportunity live.

‘Presents under the tree!’ called Lily, as the guests filed in wearing their Christmas best. Ugly sweaters assaulted the eye; Rudolph earrings flashed on and off in stretched earlobes, and a few grinches made finger guns at each other.

‘Now, if you have any requests for the special couple, hop up on Santa’s lap and let him know. He’ll write them down in his special notebook for you.’

Mort waved gallantly from his sleigh – ugh, these Santa gloves were making his hands itchy – then pointed to the huge red leather-bound Naughty a couple dressed as sexy reindeer; someone dolled up as a menorah; an out-of-place werewolf who’d apparently got their dress codes mixed up. It was going to be a long evening.

He’d managed to smile and chuckle his way through half a dozen guests when an elderly, dramatically dressed sugarplum fairy (Mort guessed) hauled herself up the ramp towards the sled using a rickety walking frame with disco-ball-covered tennis ball feet on the bottom.

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ he called, reaching out a hand to help her up onto the sleigh.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped. ‘A handsy Santa is the last thing I need. Haven’t you heard of personal space?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mort said as politely as he could. Be like Lily. Be like Lily, he thought. ‘I’m used to working around elves. The South Pole has different personal space norms.’

‘Bah. You’re no Santa. Santa’s jolly. You’re morose.’

Is that any fucking surprise? Mort wanted to say. But Lily wouldn’t do that. Lily would make a joke, or she’d offer the old biddy a mint. Or she’d use her natural charm to somehow shift this woman’s mood from grump to giggly.

‘So, how would you like me to sign your guest book note?’ asked Mort, opening the Naughty & Nice book. Tink had done a fabulous job with it, as always: the entire thing was handbound, with tooled leather and debossing, and a little ribbon bookmark topped with a bell.

‘Just Jemimah,’ snapped the old woman. ‘ Not Gemma. Or Genevieve. Jemimah, like the Puddle-Duck, but with an h on the end, although you’re too young to know.

I bet you grew up on screens. Like my third husband, and the one after him.

Not husband … more … beau. Full of drama, that one.

The whole family was against it from the start. ’

Mort’s snowdome pen skipped. This was Aunt Jemimah of the seating chart fame.

The one they’d decided to rotate from table to table every ten minutes to avoid the inevitable fist fights, or in the case of Sissy Chalmers, who had a documented history of such behaviour, someone being glassed in the face.

The Grief Guys had been enlisted to distract Aunt Jemimah with hors d’oeuvres and photo opportunities and the travelling spring of ‘kisstletoe’ that was going around so that she’d never actually take a seat at any time during the night, and therefore couldn’t raise hell.

‘So, Aunt Jemimah, what wish would you like to make on behalf of the happy couple?’

But Aunt Jemimah had gone very still. She stiffened next to Mort, clutching at her heart. Then she toppled into him, the way he’d worried that Cousin Nolene might. Although, alas, Aunt Jemimah lacked any padding, making it a very bony fall.

Now what? Pretending to scribble a lengthy note in the Nighty & Nice book, Mort glanced around the room for Lily, who was helping prop up a giant blow-up snowman that had sprung a leak. The Grief Guys rushed in with tape and a bicycle pump.

‘Lily,’ whispered Mort, when she glanced his way. He waved his beard like a flag on a ship. ‘Lily! Aunt Jemimah. She’s … carked it.’

Lily hurried over, the flared skirt of her Mrs Claus outfit swishing. ‘She’s what now? But we put all that work into the logistics for tonight.’

‘What do I do with her?’ he whispered.

Lily handed out candy canes to a couple of kids and sent them on their way. ‘I mean … you’re the corpse guy.’

‘I’m not a corpse guy! I’m a funeral director.’

‘But there’s quite a bit of overlap, no? Just … haul her out the back and put her in the hearse.’

‘But we dressed up the hearse as a sleigh,’ Mort reminded her.

‘There are twelve papier-maché reindeer attached to it, all of them with remote-controlled cars – courtesy of Stribley’s grandson Hunter – attached to their cloven hoofs, and all of them requiring the assistance of the Grief Guys with their remote controls.

So moving it is going to be a joint effort. ’

‘Can I just put her in the Miata? She’s small. She’d fit.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Mort.

Lily eyed the giant empty moving boxes she and Mort had so carefully gift-wrapped the night before.

‘The fridge box,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll hold her until we’re done. Will she be okay for a few hours?’

Mort grimaced. ‘How low does the AC go in here?’

Lily produced her phone and pulled up an HVAC app. ‘We can get close to freezing. I mean, this is a Christmas-themed wedding. People are dressed for the snow. And once they get dancing they won’t mind if the ambient temperature’s a bit nipply.’

‘A bit … what?’

‘I’ll show you later.’ Lily grinned, gesturing at her bodice. She adjusted the Naughty & Nice book so that it covered Mort’s trousers. ‘There. Just in case it gets a bit tenty, too.’

‘I’m not … aroused!’ hissed Mort, although he was a little, having at last figured out what nipply meant. ‘There’s a dead woman sitting next to me!’

‘Not for long,’ said Lily. ‘Here. The wedding party’s about to make their entrance.

That’ll be perfect timing. The choir’s ready, and everyone’s pretty jolly on eggnog, so you should be able to jam her in there without anyone noticing.

Plus you’ve got the ice sculptures in front of you for plausible deniability. ’

‘They’re coming,’ said Duggo, hurrying past with Sausage (who wore a fetching reindeer costume complete with antlers).