Page 57 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Not now. Hurrying upstairs to his living quarters, Mort shoved open the balcony doors, letting the evening’s breeze rush at his face.

He stepped up to the wrought-iron perimeter, which had for months now been entwined with the balcony for Lily’s place, the funeral home’s black skull and bat motif melding seamlessly with the pink roses and gerberas of the wedding planner.

Two lengths of the twisted iron ran between the twin balcony areas.

Mort’s breath caught as he thought about the danger involved in climbing from one to the other.

Esmeralda had made it look so easy, but cats had a preternatural ability to land on their feet.

Not only that, but they had a bonus eight lives in the event that they misjudged a jump.

Mort did not have this (possibly apocryphal) benefit to his name.

Mort jammed the toe of his Oxford into the railing, then pushed himself upwards, balancing his other foot on the top of the railing. He felt like the world’s most uncoordinated Batman.

Now what?

Forwards. The only way out was forwards. Well, and down, but he wasn’t going to think about that.

Mort leaned forward, stretching out a hand to catch at the railing on Lily’s balcony. Ouch, a rose thorn. Wincing, he walked his hand to one side, reaching forward with the other.

Now he just had his feet to deal with.

But as much as he tried to will himself to pull a foot forward, his body simply wouldn’t do it. Do you want to fall to your death, you dingdong? it was saying. In between internal screams.

He was stuck. Horribly stuck. In a position that did not look unlike the Hungry Caterpillar. Horrific flashbacks of childhood Twister games ran through his head. (People had died playing Twister. And many more had thrown out their backs.)

‘Esmeralda, get help,’ whispered Mort.

Esmeralda gave him a slinky look, then launched a leg over her head and started washing her butt.

But then, disaster. Mort’s foot slipped, and he fell forward, his body stretched out between the two railings like some poor prisoner on a torture chamber rack. A family of doves indignantly burst up, flapping at his face and creating a commotion that threatened Mort’s balance quite significantly.

Mort might have howled, just a bit.

The shutters flew open, revealing Lily, clad in a … motorcycle helmet.

Lily flipped up the visor of said helmet, revealing concerned but also extremely amused eyes.

‘Mort! What on earth are you doing? Are you finally participating in the planking trend of 2011?’

‘You’re alive!’ gasped Mort, almost relaxing his grasp in his relief.

‘Oh shit, don’t fall!’ Lily reached for his hand. ‘Do you trust me?’ she asked.

Mort swallowed. The ground below was vertiginously far away. ‘I trust you.’

‘Then grab my arm.’ Lily’s nails gleamed as she slid her hand down his wrist until her fingers clasped around the meat of his forearm. Mort wrapped his fingers around her arm, gingerly, afraid he’d break her. ‘Oh come on , Mort. I get my calcium. You’re not going to snap my bones.’

Mort increased his grip.

‘There’s a guy who’s eaten his Cheerios.’ Grip tight on his arm, Lily lunged forward to wrap her arm around his chest. ‘On the count of three, I’m going to pull you towards me, like I’m dragging a puppy from the mouth of an alligator.’

‘That doesn’t make me feel better.’

‘I could let you fall to your death?’

‘We’re not doing that. Three it is.’

Lily’s eyes sparkled from within her motorbike helmet. Why on earth was she wearing that? Was she planning a trip down the highway? Was she leaving ? The very thought made Mort’s stomach clench. Well, it would’ve clenched, had he not been stretched to the full extent of his height.

‘One. Two. Three .’

Lily hauled, and Mort unlatched his shoes from the other balcony.

With an awkward, bruising slither, he landed on the rose-patterned tiling of Lily’s terrace, crumpling like a dead spider.

But not dead. Not dead at all, he thought, staring up at Lily’s bright blue eyes, which were crinkled at their corners the way they always were when he’d done something silly, which apparently was often.

‘Mort. Tell me this instant why you were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil on my terrace.’

‘I thought you were dying,’ gasped Mort, who was winded both physically and spiritually. ‘Angela and Tink said that you were on your deathbed. That this was a plague house. They started singing “Ring a Ring a Rosie”.’

Lily covered her eyes with her hands. Then, splaying her fingers slightly, she peeked through them.

‘Mort,’ she said through her helmet. ‘It’s just a cold sore. Not deadly. Not even debilitating. Just … gross.’

Mort groaned. ‘I climbed a balcony to rescue you from a cold sore?’

Lily chuckled. ‘Mort, my love, nothing can rescue me from the clutches of HSV1. We just need to wait for time to work her magic. Now, do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Will you take off the helmet?’ he asked curiously.

‘Never,’ she said, putting down the visor.