Just My Type: The brand-new HILARIOUS novel from the author of THE YEAR OF SAYING YES

by Hannah Doyle

  ‘You got ghosted.’

  ‘It was savage. I’d had such high hopes for him, too. He ticked a lot of my boxes.’

  ‘Mmm hmm,’ Mila gives me a knowing look. ‘So James dumped you on the London Eye and Zach ghosted you. Are we missing any other charming love interests?’

  ‘Nope,’ I shake my head, sloshing some gin into my glass and add a splash of tonic for appearance’s sake.

  ‘Jasmine?’ Mila is using her stern voice.

  ‘You can’t be thinking of Hot Tom?’

  Mila nods. ‘What’s the latest with him?’

  ‘Well, obviously I haven’t seen him since James and I got together. Though I guess I could call him now I’m single again. Wow, thanks Mila, you’re reminded me that every cloud does have a silver lining. Hot Tom!’

  ‘No,’ barks Mila with such force that I spill some drink on myself. ‘Hot Tom is not a silver lining situation!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s see. . . because you’ve been hooking up, on and off, for over a year now and it’s not going anywhere. Because your number is stored under Jasmine Fuckbuddy on his phone. Because he only rings you when he’s drunk. Because he has never, ever, stayed for breakfast. It’s not exactly the beginnings of a beautiful love story, is it? Jas, you are a brilliant, beautiful, sunshine of a person and I want to see you happy. You deserve so much more and your list of exes is not okay, babes.’

  ‘Alright! I get it. What are you doing now?’ Mila has picked her phone up and I know we’re both keen for chicken but she literally checked two minutes ago.

  ‘Researching,’ she says mysteriously, pulling a pen out of her bag and scribbling things down on a piece of paper.

  ‘Researching what?’

  After a while her eyes light up. ‘Oh. Bingo. I’ve just found an article called “Seven Dates To Find The One”. Listen to this. . . “Lucky number seven: New research has found that the average number of people we date before finding The One is seven.”’ Mila reads aloud.

  ‘Okaaaaay. Well I’ve definitely dated more than seven guys already and I am no closer to finding The One so, what are we saying, that I’ve failed? Shall I just give up now?’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself! You just said that you’re back to square one, right? So let’s make the most of that. Let’s wipe the slate clean. Let’s have a fresh start. Let’s take this article as inspiration and find you seven new men to date.’ She holds seven fingers up and wiggles them at me.

  Seven new men?

  ‘But I don’t really want to go on any new dates, let alone SEVEN. In fact, I’d really like to go back in time and for James to realise that I’m the perfect girlfriend, not get dumped and carry on with my life as it was a couple of hours ago. Can you find an article on how to do that?’

  Mila’s not even trying to look sympathetic anymore. Instead a huge neon ‘I HAVE A PLAN’ sign has popped up above her head and her eyes are darting around the room as she hatches some new, possibly hideous ideas. I’m scared, you guys. Within seconds she has sent me a link to the article, drawn a huge number seven on her piece of paper and started talking to me like I’m a new recruit at boot camp.

  ‘James acted like a complete jerk, so there will be no travelling back in time to fix this. He is over.’

  ‘But he was as close to perfect as I’ve found in ages.’

  Mila sighs. ‘Exactly. Your idea of perfect needs a serious rethink. Let’s talk through your type and see if we can so some trouble-shooting.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, finally warming to the subject. I may not have much dating success but I do know exactly what I’m after. ‘Tall, dark and handsome. And I like sporty boys. Ooh, and green eyes are always a bonus. I like guys in suits and if they work in some kind of finance situation, that’s good too.’

  ‘City wankers are your catnip. Extra points for being an outrageous flirt.’

  This is also true. I squirm, suddenly finding this sofa very uncomfy.

  ‘Here we are then!’ Mila tears off the top sheet of her notepad and lays it out on the coffee table. On the left-hand side of her giant number seven is a list. . .

  My Type on Paper

  1. Tall, dark, handsome

  2. Buff AF and into sports

  3. Green eyes a bonus

  4. Outrageous flirt

  5. Posh job / high-flyer

  6. Sharp dresser

  7. Absolute douche

  ‘Hey!’ I protest, reading out point seven.

  ‘This is the perfect summary of your type,’ says Mila. ‘If we’re ever going to get you out of this douche-dating gin-drinking pity party cycle, we need to do something drastic.’

  ‘We do?’ I feel frightened and also a little affronted. It’s cute that my best friend wants to help but all this we talk makes me feel like she’s taking charge. Though, let’s face it, I’ve not made a great success of being in charge of my own life so far.

  ‘Yes we do!’ Mila wafts a felt-tip around enthusiastically. ‘You are going to go on those seven dates and, drums please, not one of them can be anything like your old type on paper. You are going to mix things up. No more letting boys in suits chat you up at one of Vomit’s parties. No more dating apps, let’s go retro. We need to get you out of your comfort zone and to do that, you’re going to have to throw out your own rule book, Jas.’

  Gulp.

  Mila finds a different coloured pen, grabs the piece of paper and starts scribbling again.

  ‘Firstly, I think you should deal with your exes. You let Zach swan off into the sunset without one word of an explanation. Why did he ghost you? And why the bloody hell should he be allowed to treat you that way? You need answers, Jas. And while you’re at it, you can tell Hot Tom that he is no longer allowed VIP access to your underpants. What gives him the right to just show up demanding you know what? You should respect yourself more, okay?’

  Mila’s on a right roll while I slink further and further into the sofa. Maybe if I curl myself up into a small enough ball she might forget I’m here? I pull at the cushions, building myself a little fortress for protection.

  ‘I mean, just look at that ridiculous list. It’s SO superficial! What about finding a guy who is actually nice and who has some integrity? Do you know what, I’m going to make you an anti-list.’

  She starts jotting things down to the right-hand side of the number seven.

  #PrayForJasmine.

  My NEW type on paper

  1. Blond, beardy, topknot?

  2. Sport is out, being passionate is in

  3. ANY EYE COLOUR you fussy mo fo

  4. Less flirty, more genuinely nice

  5. Non-wanker job

  6. Start looking past his outfit

  7. Strong group of friends?

  ‘There,’ she smiles. ‘A seven-point check list for your next seven dates.’

  LOLS that she thinks I’m going to find the time to deal with my past relationship failures, let alone get myself out there. I tell her as much. ‘I’m flying to Cannes tomorrow, Mils. And that’s just the start of a super busy summer. Violet’s schedule is so packed that every time I think about it, I forget to breathe.’

  ‘But that’s perfect,’ Mila claps. ‘Trips abroad equal FRESH MEAT! The ideal opportunity to meet some new men.’

  ‘I’m going to be way too busy running around after Violet to. . .’

  Mila shushes me with a finger on my lips. ‘You cannot be expected to work twenty-four seven. When there is downtime from Vomit, I expect you to be getting yourself out there. Okay?’

  This all sounds a bit bat shit scary, to be honest. But saying no to Mila when she’s so enthused feels even scarier, so I mumble my assent.

  ‘I really think this is going to be good for you,’ Mila grins, giving my cheeks a squeeze. ‘This is your chance to start over, Jas! Wipe the dating slate clean. Start accepting some dates with guys who don’t fit your old type. Aren’t you excited to get out there in a totally different way?’

  ‘H
ow long until chicken?’ I ask petulantly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sometimes I wake up feeling like I could run the world and sometimes I spend minutes hunting for my phone only to find that it’s already in my actual hand. This morning falls into the second category. There’s chipotle mayo in my hair, for a start. There’s ringing in my ears and vague flashbacks to serenading Mila with aggressive rap songs last night. And then there’s the gin headache, the day of travelling with Violet to look forward to and, cherry on the cake (crap on the carpet?), the thudding realisation that I’m back to being single.

  Today is not winning at anything.

  Thirty minutes in and I’ve showered, crammed a few ‘borrowed’ items from Mila’s wardrobe into my suitcase and am ready as I’ll ever be to leave the house when I spot that she’s left a glass of orange juice out for me with an accompanying Post-it.

  Drink this ↑ and don’t forget this →

  The second arrow points towards last night’s list and anti-list, resplendent with a giant number seven. I feel my shoulders sink a little as memories of the gin-fuelled discussion come flooding back. It wasn’t one of my favourite nights of all time, I’ll be honest. ’Cept for the chicken.

  Scrunching up the Post-it, I neck the juice and check the time.

  Shit. If I don’t move soon I’m going to be late and Violet doesn’t approve of tardiness in anyone other than herself, so I scramble around shoving all my stuff back into my hand luggage and pray that the tube won’t be taking the piss when I get there. Anything more than a two-minute wait and I’ll kick off. Or, you know, just be terribly British and grumbly under my breath.

  Wait, where’s my passport? Argh! I upend my bag onto the kitchen counter and it tumbles out with a piece of chewing gum stuck to it. Did I mention that I’m incredibly chic and classy? Hurriedly scraping everything back into my bag, I’m about to stick the passport into the back pocket of yesterday’s jeans when I spot my best friend’s list again.

  ‘My new type on paper,’ I read out loud. I’m tempted to rip it up, but we all know that Mila will be crazy cross if she finds it in her bin, so I fold it up into a tiny square and bury it deep in the spare pouch of my passport holder.

  There’s a pair of giant sunglasses walking towards me, so I must still be drunk. I stare down at the half-eaten croissant in my hand, blink a bit and look back up. Nope, the huge sunglasses are still on the approach. But at least now I can see that they’re attached to some bouncing blonde hair, a shimmering midi-dress, perfectly bronzed calves and a pair of high heels. Violet. An absolute vision, standing out against the crowds of other holiday-makers. She comes to a halt in the middle of the busy airport and forces a buggy loaded with suitcases to perform an emergency stop.

  I hop up, dusting crumby hands on my jeans and wiping croissant grease from my lips. She peers over the top of her sunglasses at me in disapproval. Sunglasses indoors. ‘Good morning. My luggage is just over there. Be a doll and grab it for me? I’d do it myself, only I’ve just applied a nourishing hand cream! Flights can be so dehydrating.’

  A mountain of monogrammed suitcases winks at me. Dogsbody duties are go. Together we clatter through the airport, me pushing a trolley full of Violet’s luggage with my own camera kit perched precariously on my back, Violet with a tiny cup of takeaway espresso in her hand, pinky aloft. People over the age of twenty-two stop and stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s famous, while teenage girls skip over for a selfie and gush about how Violet is totally the most inspiring woman on the planet. I lurk in the background, peak hangover about to hit. A cheeseburger would not go amiss, but it isn’t even close to lunchtime and I don’t want to risk puking mid-flight. Getting dumped last night was bad enough, but then going round to Mila’s, drinking All The Drinks and scarfing fried chicken for dinner? I really need to start questioning my life choices.

  Violet weaves through the shops, spritzing herself with expensive perfumes while I attempt to heave her crap around the aisles, the scent of patchouli and rose assaulting my nostrils. All the while, she’s trilling about how excited she is to be the face of a new vodka company who have invited her along to Cannes Film Festival. Violet’s getting paid to attend the glittering event and in return, she’s going to light up her blog and social media channels with sponsored content for the brand. She’s been focusing on Cannes for weeks now, which explains yesterday’s tan and the fact that only green juice, coffee and something called Tasmanian rain water have passed her lips over the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘Shall we go through the plan again?’ asks Violet as we wait in the boarding lounge.

  ‘Sure. You want me to take photos of you living your best life whenever you’re out and about. I’ve got plenty of stills planned too. . . pretty, vodka-drinking scenes with sea, sand and sky in the background.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Violet nods approvingly. ‘I can’t wait! We really must nail this, Jasmine. If it’s a success, who knows what I might be invited along to next.’ She glazes over as she dreams about world domination. I fish a bit of mascara goop out of my eye. ‘I bet you never imagined you would be part of Cannes.’

  ‘Um, no.’

  ‘And look at you now!’ Violet pats my hand. ‘Just imagine where you’d be if we’d never met.’

  Do not punch your boss. Do NOT punch your boss.

  But Violet’s kind of right, attending the festival is an amazing opportunity. I guess if we’re talking about my own personal life goals though, studying Fine Art and Photography at the crazy popular Bede Academy in New York had been right up there since I picked up a camera for the very first time. I shake my head, the familiar lurch of regret starting to bubble up inside. In an ideal world, that’s how I’d have started my career and not just because going to uni in America sounded so cool! I worked every spare minute during sixth form to save up on the teeny, tiny chance that I’d get offered a place. Framing pictures for a local art gallery, making personalised greetings cards for friends and family, working in a café. . . You name it, I did it. When I was invited to interview on Skype for a place, I nearly collapsed. I was so nervous beforehand that I didn’t sleep. Dad found me pacing around in the kitchen and sat me down, told me that he believed in me and spent all night helping me to put together my portfolio.

  My throat tightens at the memory.

  Two weeks later, the letter came through. I’d been offered a place! The course tutor said he saw ‘potential’ in my work. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so completely happy. I was off to America! To study actual photography! Watch out Annie Leibovitz! That day Dad swept me up in his arms like he had since I was little, planted a kiss on my forehead and told me how proud he was of me. And when Mum came home from work, we all piled out to our favourite restaurant where we drank prosecco to celebrate.

  Then came the shit storm. Dad did the whole what-Dad-did thing and everything turned upside down. My heart hurts thinking about it even now. Mum was in bits and there was no way I could support her if I was living thousands of miles away.

  So, the truth is, I was really lucky to land this job with Violet. When we met, my dreams of becoming a photographer were almost extinct. No one wanted to take me on without any training or qualifications and I’d gone back to work at the art gallery, framing other people’s artwork. Violet’s blog was just getting popular and when she came in asking for advice on some prints she wanted framing, we got talking. I offered to take some pictures of her and she liked how they turned out. She offered me a job soon after that and I practically bit her arm off. An actual salary doing what I loved! Sure, it wasn’t the exact kind of photographer I’d dreamed of becoming. But it was a great opportunity and the perfect starter job. Only, that was five years ago now and I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed anymore. I can’t admit that, of course. Violet sees taking me on as a kind of Mother Teresa move and even though she’s at her most patronising slash irritating right now, I won’t risk upsetting her by pointing out that we’re busy chasing after her dreams,
not mine.

  In good news, I survived take-off without throwing up gin/chicken/croissant. In bad news, Violet gives zero fucks that I am craving some peace and quiet and is insisting on talking to me through this entire flight. She’s read through my proposed photography schedule three times and, having exhausted all possible lines of work chat, now appears to be telling me about her love life like we’re gal pals.

  ‘I had to dump the last guy because he looked better in skinny jeans than I do and I simply couldn’t have that.’

  I snap my head round to face her. That sounds familiar.

  ‘So now I’m on a mission,’ she adds. ‘I need to meet a new boyfriend in Cannes. First and foremost, he has to be famous. Obvs! Imagine dating a non-celebrity! I need my stock to rise, not fall. And of course he needs to tick a lot of my boxes, too. Tall, dark and handsome. Good dresser. Buff AF.’

  Violet’s ticking her type off against her well-moisturised fingers while my eyes widen in horror.

  Is. . .?

  No, it can’t be. I shake my head to dismiss the thought but it pops right back up again like a faulty jack-in-the-box.

  Is. . . my type the same as Violet’s type? Nah. I probably heard her wrong. I hit replay on Violet’s last sentence. Tall, dark and handsome. Good dresser. Buff AF.

  Jesus weeps.

  VIOLET AND I HAVE THE SAME TYPE?

  AS IN. . . VOMIT? AND I?

  THE SAME TYPE?????????!!!!!!!!!

  Oh hell no. This is bad. Surely we can’t have the same taste in men? I cast my mind back to the last few idiots men Violet has dated and sure enough, there they are. Practically clones of the guys I’ve dated, only more polished, better looking. . . bigger douchebags. There was Kris – already on dodgy footing given that he insisted on spelling his first name with a K – the City wanker with a penchant for showering Violet with red roses every time he forgot to keep his knob in his pants, who dumped her right when she thought it was getting serious. Jean-Luc, the ridiculously gorgeous model who never, ever stayed for breakfast. And AJ, who strung her along for one long summer of weddings before he stopped returning her calls.