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

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Just My Type: The brand-new HILARIOUS novel from the author of THE YEAR OF SAYING YES Page 5

by Hannah Doyle


  And he hasn’t called me stupid once tonight! I glance across the table at my date, who seems much less shouty this evening. His blue eyes are setting off his lightly tanned skin and he is no longer sporting yesterday’s unmentionable do.

  ‘Are you licking your lips at me?’ Thierry asks, eyebrow raised.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, JASMINE.

  ‘We should eat,’ he grins. ‘Do you like fish? It’s fantastic here.’

  Lovely company, delicious food, a canopy of stars dazzling overhead. A warm breeze musses up my hair and I shiver, trying not to lose my shit when Thierry offers me his cotton jumper like it’s nothing.

  ‘You must meet lots of beautiful women working in a club in Cannes,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he agrees. ‘Most of them look straight through me though. They don’t even register the guy carrying the drinks when there are millionaires with yachts to chat to. I could tell straight away that you were different. You didn’t look through me, you looked right into my eyes while you gave me an awful lot of information about your dating history. I thought that was sweet.’

  I allow myself a couple of glances over at him, feeling strangely bashful to be sat here on this date. It’s so funny to think that I’d have missed out on this beautiful setting if I’d stuck to my original type.

  ‘Do you want to try mine?’ he offers, scooping some cod onto his fork. I lean across

  and take a bite.

  ‘So good!’ I stretch my arms out wide and breath in the candlelit courtyard.

  ‘A little bit like you,’ Thierry replies, quick as you like. ‘I would like for us to make love later, Jasmine.’

  And. . . I’m back in the room.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. L’amour.’ He reaches his hand out past the candles dancing on our table and I instinctively inch my own out of his reach.

  ‘But. . . we haven’t even finished eating!’ You’ll have to let me off for that one, guys. I’m shell-shocked and I always say ridiculous things when I’m feeling awkward. The night had been going so well! Thierry ticked none of my old boxes and loads of my new ones!

  ‘Don’t worry, we will finish food first, make love later.’

  Holy smokes. I fiddle with my knife and fork, completely unused to being propositioned like this on a first date.

  ‘Let me get this straight, first you tell me I’m coming on a date with you and then you tell me we can have sex after we’ve eaten dinner?’ Flabbergasted does not cover it, which might explain why I’m now nervous giggling.

  ‘These are the things I would like to happen Jasmine. You are cute, I am hot, we should definitely bang.’

  Use of the word bang has not helped Thierry’s cause. Ditto calling himself hot.

  ‘I think we may be dealing with a culture clash here,’ I say, sloshing my wine glass at him. ‘In the UK, I don’t tend to date men who are so, um, forthright.’ (Unless you count Hot Tom, in which case an aubergine emoji and a couple of peaches are often the entirety of our pre-date conversation. Not that Thierry needs to know about that right now.) ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I quite like a bit of build-up to getting naked.’

  ‘How long are you in Cannes for?’ he asks eagerly.

  ‘A couple more days.’

  ‘Is that enough time for this build-up you talk of?’

  ‘No it is not!’ I shake my head primly. ‘And tonight was the only time off I have for the whole trip so. . .’

  ‘So. . . we bang!’ he concludes, looking like he’s come up with an ingenious solution.

  ‘No we do not bang,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve only just met you!’

  Thierry tuts. ‘You are so English.’

  ‘Yes, so you keep telling me.’ I cast around for a way to rewind the conversation by five minutes. It was all going so well. Despite my reservations, Thierry the shouty waiter seemed like the perfect ‘not my type’ date. He ticked a lot of things on Mila’s anti-list, might be the first man in the world to call me sexy when angry, and that jumper move just now gave me goosebumps.

  ‘What a fall from grace, Thierry,’ I sigh. ‘There will be no banging and I would like for you to take me back to Cannes now, please.’

  ‘What about your dessert? It’s a chocolat crémeaux, mon favorit.’

  ‘Doggy bag?’ I suggest.

  Thierry’s eyes light up. ‘Doggy. . .?’

  ‘NO THIERRY!’ I shout, slapping my hands down on the table. The motion makes our candles go out. ‘Doggy bag. BAG.’

  I close the door to my hotel bedroom and lean my body against it. It’s completely quiet in here, the roar of the moped long gone and Thierry safely dispatched back to his lecherous lair. I threw a considerable amount more sexy anger his way when he dropped me off, just to make sure he got the message that no, I categorically would not be inviting him back to mine for a nightcap. Or ‘capnight’ as he called it, which was actually quite cute. Now that I’m alone, I feel a smile dancing around my lips. Sure, my date was a perve in need of immediate dispatch but I still got a huge kick from tonight. The surprise of being asked out while champagne socked into my socks, the beautiful restaurant and a very charming Thierry. . . until he blew it.

  My phone starts to buzz with renewed wifi and I open up a couple of hundred messages from Violet, still on her date with Chip. It’s going ‘swimmingly’ and she’s now drip-feeding me a masterplan full of ideas on how to blog about their romance when they go public. I feel my brain automatically kick back into work mode until I remember that it’s the middle of the night and I just went on a date of my own. I know someone who will be dying to hear about it.

  Mils, I JUST WENT ON A DATE. A shouty blond French waiter called Thierry asked me out and I lost my mind and said yes, and it was going super well at first! Really romantic, amazing setting. Then bam, he turned into a sex pest and I had to ditch him. Too much, Thierry. Still buzzing about it though, definitely better than a night in! New type on paper score: 3 / 7.

  . . .

  Shit the bed Jasmine I’m so proud of you! You’re on a journey now, boo.

  Oh dear lord.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Exhausting, mesmerising, knackering. . . but, mostly, Cannes has been a success. Both Violet and I are buoyed up as we land back in London. Violet is smitten with Chip and her (my?) pictures from the film festival have been bagging her more likes than ever on social. I even managed to sneak a bit of time off on our last day, pottering behind the scenes to take some photos of life away from the famous faces at the festival – kitchen porters racing around like headless chickens, make-up artists grabbing an emergency ciggie on balconies in between jobs, that sort of thing. They’re much more raw than the polished shots Violet prefers and I really like them for that.

  Not that I have the time to toot my own horn. I’ve just shoved Violet and all 642 suitcases into the back of a taxi (she calls them, wait for it, ‘town cars’) and now I’m wrestling my way onto a packed tube. It smells fusty on the underground but for once I don’t mind. I’m heading home to take off my bra, eat a packet of Quavers and sleep in my own bed. . . in a bedroom that has windows! Sweet, sweet home. My phone starts vibrating just as I’m about to get the escalators down to my tube line.

  ‘Mila! I missed you,’ I answer.

  ‘Are you back? I missed you too! We need to catch up because I have to hear all

  about Thierry immediately.’

  ‘Oh yes please. I could come over tonight? Though I could really do with a shower. . .’

  ‘You are always welcome at mine, shower or not, but Mike’s been banging on about watching some new comedy all week and I did promise we could watch it tonight.’

  ‘Roger that, I don’t want to deprive you guys of some cosy couple time.’

  ‘What will you do instead?’

  ‘Go home, shower and sleeeeeeeep.’

  ‘Or. . .’

  ‘I guess I could have a bath instead? I’ve got a couple of bath bom
bs left over from Christmas. Though you know how much I hate that bloody avocado tub. My bathroom must have been the colour of sludge green since the eighties.’

  ‘Why are we still talking about your gross bathroom when I quite clearly meant that there is something entirely else you could be getting on with. Like. Your. List. How about you hop on the central line and go see Zach?’

  ‘How about you hop on the central line and go see Zach.’ Don’t nobody tell me that my comebacks aren’t the best.

  Mila doesn’t even dignify this with a response. There’s just a loaded silence down the line, which she knows I hate.

  ‘Mils, I’m tired. I smell like travel. I literally just went on a date like you said I should, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘It’s an incredible start and I’m really pleased, Jas, but this is just the tip of the iceberg. Let’s strike while the iron’s hot! Let’s make hay while the sun shines! There is no time like the present! Let’s. . .’

  ‘Ohmygod, alright! FINE. I’ll go and see bloody Zach.’

  Mila makes some cheering noises down the phone while I give my bra strap a consolatory twang. I really cannot wait to get this guy off. Still, that terrifying moment when I realised that Violet and I have the same type in men has been plaguing my brain all trip long. Another tiny attempt to step away from that can’t harm, can it?

  ‘Give him a kick in the balls from me,’ Mila’s saying.

  ‘I think we both know I’ll do no such thing. Enjoy your evening with Mike and don’t forget that I love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  I’m in a bar surrounded by all my camera kit plus the bag of bathroom goodies I liberated from Violet’s hotel room before we left, emptying a miniature pot of moisturiser onto my hands in the hope that it will mask that stuffy plane scent I’ve absorbed into every pore, when I spot Zach shooting a panicked look in my direction. Zach the ghoster. Zach whose name appears on my new to date list next to a drawing of a poo. And it turns out that his lack of communication cannot be explained away by him suffering a horrific accident, which had been my best hope. The selfish jerk. Here he is being all good-looking, flashing his white teeth at the women vying for a spot to be served by the hot bartender. He looks good. He looks happy. He looks positively unmoved by the fact that he left me high and dry. I swill the sparkling water in my glass around, self-doubt creeping in. Sure, I was feeling all high-on-life when we landed but now I’m here I’m starting to wonder why I let Mila nudge me into this. Other than the fact that she’s a bit scary. And that she’s taken over my love life. I know Mila’s only trying to help but maybe some things are better left unsaid? Also my bra is really digging in.

  ‘Jasmine?’ Zach pops up on the other side of the bar just as I’m about to slink off.

  ‘Argh,’ I jump. ‘Um, yes, it’s me, Jasmine.’ An excellent start.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ He leans towards me and for a moment I just want to reach out and touch his strong arms.

  ‘Yes thank you Zach,’ I say, wondering why my voice has gone all headmistressy. ‘Actually, no. I am not okay. I’m here for some answers, like why you ghosted me.’

  Zach has the decency to look embarrassed.

  ‘Ah,’ he scans the bar with an apologetic shrug. ‘It’s really busy in here tonight. . .’

  ‘I can wait until you’ve closed. I assume you’ll be locking up?’ Zach’s family run this bar. He’s actually a rugby player (SO my type former type) but he likes to keep a hand in with the family business.

  ‘Tonight? I was actually going to. . .’ his eyes flicker towards a stunning woman at the opposite corner.

  Of course he was. Urgh. I’m not sure my heart can cope with this. But in the spirit of being brave, I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

  ‘Never mind. I can see her another night. We should start to empty by midnight if you don’t mind holding out? I’ll get some bar snacks for you.’

  I stifle a yawn as Zach finally coaxes the last of the revellers out and says goodnight to the rest of the staff.

  ‘Grab a seat,’ he waves towards a table and picks up the empties. ‘Same again?’ But he doesn’t wait for me to reply and comes back over with two sparkling waters in his hand.

  I pull up a chair, my heart pounding. Zach’s done that thing where he’s sat down with the chair backwards, so the back rest is between his legs, and I’m trying hard not to let my mind wander back to when I was in the back rest’s position. Because I’m not here for the sexy memories. I’m here for answers and maybe a little bit of my new apparent trait, sexy anger.

  ‘You went dead on me,’ I begin. ‘Except you weren’t actually dead because Ben always has the rugby on and I saw you on the telly, like, three times.’

  Zach fidgets uncomfortably.

  ‘So. . .’ I press. ‘What happened?’

  He clears his throat. He eats a wasabi pea. He takes a sip of water.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ he finally says.

  ‘I’ve been in Cannes with Violet. It was crazy busy but I did get about seven minutes of sun on my face, so I reckon I’ll have a badass tan when I wake up tomorrow.’ Stop waffling! I clear my throat. ‘Listen, it’s been a long few days and I’ve been waiting here for hours to talk to you now. Make that months, actually. I’ve been waiting months for you to have the decency to explain yourself.’ I rub my temples, a headache beginning to twitch. ‘I thought things between us were going well. We had fun, I’d got that trip planned, and then you just dropped me like a hot cake. Or is it hot potato? Whatever, you dropped me like something really hot. So please, don’t try and throw me off with some crap compliments. It’s about time you grew some balls and talked to me honestly.’

  Zach looks surprised by my directness and I feel the same, tbh. Spurred on, I frown at him (sexily).

  ‘Okay. The thing is, you got too much for me Jas. Like you said, we were having fun, and then suddenly you were talking about going on holiday and shit?’

  ‘When you say “going on holiday and shit” do you mean going on holiday like normal couples do?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose,’ he pinches the top of his nose. ‘It just felt too intense for me. Too much, too soon. Like you were putting a lot of pressure on me.’

  ‘Too much pressure?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, way too emphatically. ‘If ever I did something that didn’t match up to your exact ideals, I felt like I was in trouble or I’d let you down.’

  I pause to think about this. Zach *might* have a point. I am quite exacting when it comes to boyfriends. I guess it’s just because I don’t want to get hurt? I’m about to say this to Zach but his eyes have glazed over and I sense that I’ve already lost his full attention.

  ‘Aren’t you drinking that?’ he asks.

  ‘Nope. You didn’t actually wait for me to reply when you offered another drink anyway, and I must have had two pints of water already tonight. I really don’t want to be busting for the loo on the journey home.’

  ‘Gross,’ he wrinkles up his face.

  ‘What’s gross, the idea that I might need the toilet?’

  ‘Girls shouldn’t talk about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Zach, what the fuck? Girls shouldn’t talk about normal bodily functions? What a load of bollocks. Oh, and by the way, I think you mean women. You were the boy in this relationship and guess what, it looks like you still are. Look, I appreciate you being honest with me tonight. I’ve realised that you behaved like a wanker because you are, in fact, a bit of a wanker. And while there’s obviously some stuff that I need to work on too, which I’m grateful to you for pointing out, at the end of the day you treated me badly. That’s on you, not me. And now I can go home, eat my Quavers and take this goddam bra off.’

  I watch Zach’s mouth fall further open as I stand up and walk out of his life on my terms this time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mum is kneeling in the garden having a chat with a big green bush when I arrive home. There’s a wicker basket next to her f
illed with some kind of leaf, her floral patterned gardening gloves perched on top. A straw hat keeps the sun from her eyes and she’s wearing the denim dungarees which she most definitely did not buy as a fashion statement that time when dungarees came back in. As ever, my heart bursts with love for her.

  ‘I’m back,’ I call out. ‘What are you talking to?’

  ‘Horatio the Hosta, he’s in fine fettle today.’

  Mum’s named all the plants in her garden.

  ‘Right. Horatio does look very, um, green.’

  It’s safe to say that I haven’t inherited her aptitude for horticulture.

  ‘Doesn’t he just?’ Mum beams, happily telling me all about a new compost she’s been trying out while I squat down to get a better view. If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t really know what makes a good or a bad compost. Or, come to think of it, what makes compost full stop. But seeing my mum this content, this full of joy, never ceases to put a smile on my face.

  Our garden teems with life these days, butterflies fluttering from one plant to the next and bees getting giddy on the lavender. When I was little, the place was overrun with weeds and only ever tamed when Dad got the chance to whizz a lawnmower over the unruly grass.

  ‘Home-made lemonade?’ Mum asks, jumping up from Horatio and pointing towards a jug of cloudy liquid. Mum’s home-made lemonade tastes like pure acid and yet she makes a fresh batch every weekend. Apparently it’s ‘restorative’.

  ‘Just a small glass,’ I reply, which she thoroughly ignores, pouring me a pint of the stuff. See ya later, tastebuds.

  ‘I was sorry to hear what happened with James,’ Mum squeezes my hand. ‘I know how much you were looking forward to the wedding this weekend. Still, Mila tells me that she’s taken charge of your love life which sounds like a wonderful idea. A shake-up will do you the world of good.’

  I pause midway through trying to cram two biscuits into my mouth at the same time. My mum and my best friend have been close since forever. . . Mila calls her own mother a deranged sack of shit, which is sadly accurate. I hadn’t quite realised that she and Mum are at the let’s-talk-about-Jasmine’s-love-life stage, though.

 

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