Page 22 of Only Fangs

“Like five, maybe ten, minutes away. I’m going to the chippie so just wanted to check you’re having the usual.”

“Are you actually an imbecile?” he replies, not unkindly, but it’s still not the nicest question to be asked.

“What have I forgotten?” I ask with trepidation. I’m normally pretty good at remembering things to be honest and I hate the feeling in the pit of my stomach like I’ve royally fucked up without even realising.

“We’re meant to be at your parents’ in literally fifteen minutes.”

“Shit.” I’d totally forgotten. We’re having a surprise birthday party for my nan – you know, the type where you switch off all the lights and then jump out to give the guest of honour a heart attack. Which given that Nan is eighty-three might be a very real possibility. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.

“Stay where you are. I’ll come pick you up,” Matt tells me. “Switch on Find My Friends,” he adds.

“I’ll be in the off-license getting supplies.” You don’t turn up to a Jackson family party without at least two bottles of wine, one of which must be prosecco if Nan’s there.

“I can’t believe you forgot,” Matt says and I hear the front door slam as he leaves the house.

“I’ve had kind of a lot going on.”

“Yeah, like fantasising about your hot vampire boss.”

“I’ve not…” but I trail off as a thought hits me. “You’d better not say anything tonight.”

Matt laughs down the phone. “Oh no way. Your family are going to fucking love this. Your nan especially.”

Chapter 13

Ari

There’s something that’s been niggling at me all day as Brody and I went through those stupid banking forms I didn’t really understand. There was a moment between us last night, right at the beginning, before all the martinis and dancing and whatever else I was doing and don’t remember. I mentioned that my friends didn’t know. About him being human. And he looked… well, he looked disappointed in me, like I’d betrayed him somehow.

So I guess this evening I’m going to come clean to Clara and Ivan. Make sure that everyone is on the same page. Because it doesn’t matter that Brody is human, he’s very good at the business and coding side of things, and he’s obviously an ally to our kind or he wouldn’t be so close with Matt. The pair of them are kind of sweet and there’s something endearing about such a bromance, like he’s the kind of guy who simply embraces his sensitive side and makes no apology for loving his friends. That’s got to be a positive trait in anyone, vampire or not.

Because this evening has been organised by Ivan and therefore means we are going to the Cloisters, I decide to make an effort as I get ready. It isn’t that I don’t normally make an effort, I just don’t normally make as much of an effort as the other vampires who patron the Cloisters, with their constant primping and preening and buying elaborate outfits with all their mountains of wealth. I, on the other hand, have pawned almost everything I have in an effort to stay afloat. Everything except a vintage black silk Stella McCartney dress and a single pair of strappy Terry De Havilland heels I bought in the 1970s.

With my freshly done nails – thank you Brody – and my hair brushed to a glossy shine – thank you Oribe Mirror Rinse – I actually feel good about myself as I prepare to leave my flat. I can’t afford one of those fancy new digital mirrors so I can’t actually see myself but I feel gorgeous and it’s been a really long time since that happened.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ivan calls across the restaurant when I walk in and every single pair of eyes in the place swivels to look at me. Normally this would scare the dying crap out of me, I’m not really one for putting myself right in the centre of all the attention, mainly because I normally then do something stupid, like fall over, or make a dumb deal, or generally make a total pig’s ear of my life. But this evening I welcome the attention and use it to fuel my journey through the warren of tables towards my friends. I even add a little hip sashay as I go.

“The old Ari returns,” Ivan says as I slide into the empty chair at the table. But then he grimaces as if someone kicked him under the table.

“You look lovely,” Clara tells me. “I’ve always loved that dress.” She gives me a smile, but there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. I know I drag them down, that these two amazing friends of mine just want to dress up and go out and have fun every single night. Especially Clara who is sitting on a ticking time bomb, waiting for the day her father will finally force her into a marriage and she’ll move to a castle in the back arse of beyond with nowhere to go and party.

“Are you going to pour me some fizz?” I ask Ivan, injecting as much joviality into my tone as I can. I suddenly feel guilty and I hate it. Guilty for not being a better friend. Guilty for not letting them live their hedonistic dreams by always being the downer. Guilty for being the one in the trio who always messes things up.

Ivan pours me a glass of champagne and then raises his own into a toast. We clink and then I down the whole thing in one.

“That’s my girl,” Ivan says with a grin and more than a hint of pride.

We talk about all the usual things as we dine on steak and dauphinoise potatoes. The menu here describes itself as “classic” but it basically means the same food we’ve been eating for about a hundred years. A lot of vampires don’t like change; there’s a prevailing opinion amongst my species that if something isn’t broken then you shouldn’t try to fix it. It’s definitely not my style, but Ivan thinks the Cloisters is the best place in the city for people watching and it’s worth the rather bland food.

He’s right of course.

He provides a scathing take down of half the diners. “Look at the state of Betsy Montague; she literally looks like it’s still eighteen-ninety.” I feel a bit sorry for Betsy; her father is a misogynistic prick who – and this is a direct quote – “keeps the women of the family on a tight leash”.

“I see the Gallaghers are enjoying themselves.” The Gallaghers look like they ran out of things to talk about over a century ago and so they sit in silence, playing with their food.

Clara barely says a word, she seems too intent on getting shitfaced. But I know that when she’s like this she doesn’t want to talk about whatever is bothering her. She’ll come to us when she’s ready to share.

“Isn’t that Cecil Francis?” Ivan scrunches up his eyes as he looks into the far corner of the room.