8. Brody
Brody
We spend the morning – after I’ve done her nails, of course – looking at what other apps are offering.
“I had no idea there were so many,” she says passing me her iPad with all the search results. “There are literally thousands. How can we expect to compete with them?”
She sounds so despondent and for the first time I see a chink in her persona. You’d have thought she would have had a moment of vulnerability when I did her nails, but she’d remained almost stoic, like it wasn’t an oddly intimate thing to do.
“Well, we don’t have to compete with them all,” I tell her, desperate to cheer her up. “Only Fangs isn’t another general dating app with no USP.”
“USP?”
“Umm…” To be honest I don’t actually know what it stands for. “Unique selling point,” I say with far more conviction than I feel. At least it sounds kind of plausible. “Like the thing that makes it different from the others.”
“So Tinder has the whole ‘swipe right’ thing,” she says, but it’s almost phrased as a question.
“Tinder was the first, but most other apps work on the same principle now too.” I did a bit of homework over the weekend and judging by the impressed look on Ari’s face it’s paying off. “Basically you need something to set your app apart from the others.”
“Like what?”
“Right. Well, look at these ones,” I pat the seat next to me so she moves to sit beside me on the sofa.
I try not to think about the scent of her perfume as I pull up a list of the standard dating apps.
“These are all mass market apps, they appeal to large swathes of the population. And they generally have USPs which are based around functionality.”
I point to a black and yellow logo. “This is Bumble. Women make the first move, so you don’t get a whole load of unsolicited messages from creepy guys who want to send you pictures of their…” I trail off.
“Of their what?” she asks, frowning slightly.
“Their… you know.” I make a hand motion.
“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.” Her frown deepens.
“Their… their…” I take a deep breath. “Junk.”
Ari looks absolutely crestfallen for a moment but then she bursts out laughing.
“Junk? Did you actually just use the term ‘junk’?” She laughs again.
“Of course I know about dick pics, Brody. It isn’t like I live under a rock.
” Another burst of laughter tumbles from her lips.
“Although you should see the look on your face right now.”
“I thought maybe dick pics weren’t such a thing in vampire culture, given the whole can’t be photographed thing,” I say, a touch defensively.
“To be fair,” she puts up her hands, “vampire dick pics are extremely disappointing. Although I think that’s probably better than the alternative.” She shifts her weight to face me. “Why are human boys so obsessed with photographing their ‘junk’?”
“I’m not,” I tell her. I’ve never understood it, why would you want to send a woman you fancy a picture of your genitals for them to judge?
“Anyway,” I’m desperate to change the subject, “let’s move on.
” I point to another app, this time it’s OKCupid.
“This one has a whole algorithm dedicated to compatibility, so you’re more likely to get matched with someone you’d enjoy spending time with. ”
“So do we need to think of something super flashy, then?” She’s looking despondent again.
“Oh no. I think Only Fangs belongs in another part of the market. The USP is the client base. So this one here,” I point to Veggly “is a great example of a niche app. It’s for people who are vegan or veggie.”
“Is Only Fangs a niche app?”
“How many people in the general population are vampire?” I ask.
“About one in a thousand are born vampire.”
Oh. It was actually a rhetorical question, I wasn’t expecting her to know the actual numbers. “Clara’s father is a bit of a vampire-purist,” Ari explains, making a face so I can be in no doubt of what she thinks of this view. “He likes to drop statistics over Sunday lunch.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
She rolls her eyes.
“But, OK. So one in a thousand means there are like sixty thousand vampires in the UK.”
“Closer to a hundred thousand,” she corrects. “We don’t die remember.”
“Good point.”
“And probably half of us are single. Or in open relationships. They’re kind of popular.” She says it like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. I want to ask more questions but it seems too intrusive, like I’d be prying. No matter that I really really want to pry.
At lunchtime I offer to head out and get us some lunch.
I need to get some fresh air after being shut in that flat all morning.
I don’t mean to judge but Ari lives like a student and her flat isn’t exactly set up as even a makeshift office.
I mentally add it to the list of things we need to think about.
It’s a long list but I’ve never shied away from a challenge.
I ring Matt as I stand in the queue of Sangers, the sandwich shop a few streets from Ari’s place.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Great,” I reply.
“As in a Brody-great, or a normal-person-great?”
I’m prone to positivity, but Matt has learned over the years that it can sometimes stop me from being honest about a situation. Not to mention the number of red flags I miss, especially with potential girlfriends.
I breathe out audibly. “I’m not sure.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I just don’t think she realises how much work this is going to take. Or how much cash she’ll need to invest to get it off the ground.”
“She’s an OG, right?”
“A hundred and seventy something.”
“Exactly. So, she’ll be minted. They all are.
Imagine if you’d had a century and a half to amass a fortune.
” Matt has always said he’ll be rich one day.
There’s an absolute confidence behind that conviction and I know he’ll prove himself right.
Eventually. It would probably help if he actually thought a little about what he wanted to do, but he’ll get there. He has plenty of time after all.
“Hmmm. Here’s the thing. I don’t think she is minted.
” I don’t think minted women do their own nails at home, but I don’t tell Matt about that.
It feels… well, personal. Like I’d be betraying her trust to tell him that kind of thing.
I love Matt with my whole heart, but he can be a bit of a gossip and something tells me Ari likes her privacy.
“I’m sure she has a plan.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I inject some positivity into my tone. “And besides, this app is going to be so much fun.”
“Promise I can be one of the guinea pigs?”
“I thought you didn’t date vampires,” I remind him.
He’s had this rule since we were teenagers.
It was a difficult time for Matt – I mean, being a teenager is hardly a walk in the park for anyone – but it’s when his vampire self really showed itself.
And then the realisation he was gay. And then…
well, I keep my friend’s secrets, but some vampires have zero morals and think everything in life is one big game and who cares who gets hurt in the process.
There was an older guy, real age probably not dissimilar to Ari, who went into total stalker mode.
Luckily nothing happened and eventually the creep fucked off to find a new target, but it totally destroyed Matt’s desire to date other vampires.
There’s silence on the other end of the line and I wonder if Matt is thinking about Willoughby too.
“But you can help me with the UX,” I tell him, hoping to break him from his reverie. It isn’t healthy for him to linger over that specific set of memories.
“UX?”
“User interface,” I explain.
“You’re such a nerd.” I can hear the gentle ribbing in his voice.
“Yep.” I don’t hide it. Or try to pretend I’m something I’m not.
I’m not a vampire, I don’t get to live forever, and so I’m going to do the things that make me happy while I am here, even if other people might judge.
Not that Matt does; to be honest he’s just as much of a nerd as I am.
“Anyway, gotta go.” I’ve reached the front of the Sangers queue.
“Laters dickhead,” Matt tells me.
“Love you.” It’s our usual exchange at the end of every call, a tradition we started at school and have continued to this day.
I order coronation chicken baguettes and lattes per Ari’s instructions – the coronation chicken is to die for apparently – and then go a little off piste by adding a slab of carrot cake each.
Back at Ari’s flat, I ring the bell but there’s no answer.
I peek through the window to find her on the phone, pacing up and down in the tiny room.
She looks agitated, almost jittery. For a brief second I wish I was werewolf with super hearing so I could listen in, but I quickly tamp down that sentiment. It’s none of my business.
She throws the phone on the sofa and I take that as my cue to ring the doorbell again.
I don’t mention the call I witnessed as I hand over her coffee.
“I got us carrot cake too. If you eat cake? Everyone likes carrot cake though, don’t they?
” I’m rambling and I force myself to stop talking, just standing there with the paper bag from Sangers held awkwardly in front of me like an offering.
Why does this woman affect me so much? I’m not normally like this.