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 8

by Hannah Doyle


  ‘Heart shaped. . . HENNA TATTOOES,’ I end up saying. I’m not sure which is worse, the truth about my current bikini situation or the fact that I just told a hipster that I got a henna tattoo on holiday.

  Arnie’s trying not to laugh. ‘Did you always want to be a photographer?’ he asks, eyes alight.

  ‘My dad gave me a camera for my birthday one year and we’d spend days together, just the two of us, poring over photography books and trying to take good pictures.’ I pause, fork full of buttery mash suspended half way between my plate and my mouth. As a rule I don’t talk about my dad, like, ever. It’s written in the Jasmine Handbook under the sub-section Things Not to Talk About. Dad is number one on the list. There’s a whole host of other wrong’uns on there too. . . Holly, avocadoes (barf) and the final episode of Friends. So why am I bringing him up now?

  ‘He must be proud of you,’ Arnie is saying.

  Hmm. This is the problem when my mouth gets to work while my brain is preoccupied with pie. This is I should bloody well stick to my list of Things Not to Talk About.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I nod, shovelling a pile of mash into my mouth. Only I miss and end up shovelling a pile of mash onto my right shoulder instead. I am so smooth at dates.

  ‘It’s just that you look a bit. . . constipated?’

  ‘Seriously? Are you seriously bringing up toilet troubles as viable first date conversation?’

  We look each other in the eye and I can see that Arnie is about to laugh again. I must stay strong. I’m arranging my features into what I hope is a stern look when Arnie adds, ‘Sorry, it’s just that you screwed your face up and it did look a bit like you were constipated.’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Stop looking like you’re constipated then!’ Arnie bellows.

  ‘STOP SAYING CONSTIPATED. WE ARE ON A FIRST DATE!’ The diners next to us inch their table further away. Can’t blame them. I’m laughing so much that I’ve got stitch. Arnie’s whole face has transformed into the crying-with-laughter emoji. Our waiter can smell the hysteria and does a little side-step as he decides against coming to check that our meal’s okay.

  ‘I need to get my shit together,’ I say as the waves of laughter turn into more manageable ripples.

  ‘I thought we were avoiding toilet talk from now on?’ Arnie says, his russet-coloured beard bristling around a wide smile.

  ‘Stop that immediately.’

  It’s getting late by the time we leave the bar we found close to the pie and mash shop. I was game for a second pie but Arnie seemed to be concerned about me having a heart attack – spoilsport – so we settled on a nightcap instead. An Aperol spritz for both of us because apparently we are the same person.

  We’ve been talking all night and only after Arnie has brought me up to speed on the best place to buy vintage rucksacks we realise the time, standing up to make our goodbyes.

  ‘That was fun,’ Arnie says from about ten miles above my head. Now that we’re side by side I feel a bit like Hermione Granger staring up at Hagrid. He’s bloody massive! And almost as beardy.

  ‘It was fun,’ I agree. ‘I’m actually quite surprised.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I don’t normally talk to blokes on the tube, full stop, let alone agree to meet up with one for dinner.’

  ‘Especially when they’re weird and unhinged?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that message. But the good news is that I’ve had lots more fun than I thought!’ I beam cheerily up at him.

  ‘I am pleased,’ Arnie laughs. And then he looks me right in the eyes. Is he going to try and kiss me? I really wish he wouldn’t. This may have been fun but I’m definitely not getting any romance feels from this dude. More friend feels. I guess it’s best just to be honest.

  ‘Listen, thanks so much for trying to kiss me and all that. I just don’t think we clicked in that way.’ Argh this is awkward.

  ‘I didn’t try to kiss you.’

  Thinking back, he is correct.

  ‘Right, yes,’ I say with an embarrassing snort. ‘Well, at least now you know not to!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a great night. It’s been a real laugh. I just think we’re more mates than anything else?’

  This tennis sock wearing buffoon just friend-zoned me before I had the chance to get in there first.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, patting my arm sympathetically. PATTING MY ARM SYMPATHETICALLY, INDEED. I was about to pull that exact move on him. ‘Are you upset? Did I give off the wrong signals?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I completely agree with you. It’s just. . .’

  ‘You wanted to say it first?’ he suggests.

  ‘Of course not! Okay fine, yes I absolutely did want to say it first.’

  Arnie laughs. ‘Well, don’t be a douche about it. Here, take my business card and maybe let’s meet up for drinks again soon? As friends.’ I do not take kindly to the emphasis he puts on the last word.

  Date two complete! I had tonnes of fun with Arnie, he made me feel all warm and fuzzy in a mates only kind of way. If this mission was all about making friends he’d get 7 / 7 but there’s definitely no romance on the cards. Way too much talk about toilet troubles for sparks to be flying. So Pie with The IT Guy gets a one. Do not make a joke about giving him one please thank you. Night Mils x

  Sounds to me like he was nice, beardy and you managed to look past his trendy clothes. Surely that ticks off three on the new list at least? She taps back.

  FINE 3/7 you’re such a stickler for the rules.

  Mila replies with a meme of Monica Geller which reads ‘RULES HELP CONTROL THE FUN’.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The fragrant smell hits me first as I push open the door to Violet’s penthouse apartment. Then, as I go to dump my kit in her hallway, I realise that the usual space has been taken over by a brass vase stuffed with flowers. In fact, every single inch of Violet’s hallway is covered with perfect petals. ‘I’m here,’ I call out, follow my nose through to the state-of-the-art kitchen where Violet is hyperventilating next to a ginormous display of vertical white flowers. The words ‘ciao bella’ are spelled out across it in pink roses.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I ask, blinking pollen out of my eyes.

  ‘My own flower wall! Chip is too romantic,’ she gushes. ‘All of this is because he thinks we should go public! And that’s not all. . . He wants me to join him in Italy.’

  Violet thrusts a card in my face and I read the typed-out note.

  Darling Vi,

  I’m off to film this summer’s Totally Toffs spin-off, Toffs Take Italy. Join me for filming? My agent thinks you’ll be perfect on screen.

  Love Chip

  Huh. Here’s my boss, sticking to her type of guy like glue and now she’s drowning in flowers and about to jet off to Italy for a cameo on a reality TV show. And here’s me, getting friend-zoned by hipsters because I’m not allowed to date the kind of guys I actually like any more.

  I try to pull myself together by taking some snaps of the pure Insta-bait that is this flower wall. #bloomsfordays #ciaobella #bignewscomingsoon #flowerporn #blessed #Violetisapenis

  On second thoughts. I hold my finger on backspace until the last hashtag has been deleted. Violet isn’t really a penis. Ultimately, it’s way better for me if Violet’s in a good mood. I just can’t help feeling a bit miffed looking at this lavish display of affection, though. It would be lovely to get a bouquet from a boy. Or a single rose. Hell, even a flower emoji from a member of the opposite sex seems practically impossible right now. I am single AF and this mission of Mila’s is getting me nowhere.

  ‘So you’ll come? To Italy?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘It’s the perfect opportunity for fresh blog content so I’ll be needing my trusty photographer in tow. I can’t believe this, Jasmine! I knew dating Chip would be the perfect move and now I’m going to be on televi
sion! What a day. You’re obviously free for the next week or so, right? Chip’s going to put you in touch with the production team who are staying in some poky. . . ahem. . . a cute little hotel near to the cast’s villa. He says it won’t be a problem to add you to the list at this late stage.’

  ‘Late stage?’ I repeat, feeling nervous.

  ‘We fly tomorrow. Which means I’m really going to need some help packing.’ She claps her hands, nods pointedly at her coffee machine and floats towards her bedroom for what I can already predict will be a long-ass day of folding, ironing and packing. . . for me.

  Today has been a real swings and roundabouts kinda day. On the bright side, this is my first trip to Italy and it is mucho cuto, which is definitely Italian for very cute and yes, you’re right, I’m so good at languages! We’re staying in the beautiful lakes. The production team and I are holed up in a quaint hotel which isn’t nearly as savage as my box room in Cannes. My bedroom has windows, for a start, and if I lean out of my Juliet balcony I catch a tiny glimpse of Lake Como in the distance. Best of all, this morning’s breakfast buffet was the stuff dreams are made of. Meats, cheeses, breads, jams, a huge Nutella tub filled to the brim with mini pots of chocolate heaven. I went IN. And I intend to do the same for the entirety of this stay, size of my tush be damned! I can deal with that when I get back to England. Or, you know, never.

  Of course there’s a not-so-bright side too, which brings me to my immediate situation. I was still wiping chocolate spread from my chops when Chip turned up at my hotel in some non-ironic burgundy corduroy trousers, Violet skipping along behind him, and during what I’m now calling the Debrief of Doom they told me that they’d like to announce their new romance with some ‘paparazzi’ shots. I tried to suggest that setting up pap shots is the opposite of cool, but when Violet paused to nibble Chip’s ear I stopped arguing and started nodding, because blurgh.

  So now I’m hanging precariously out of a balcony with my long lens pointed right at them. It took quite a bit of sign-language to break through the language barrier and convince a restaurant owner to allow me access to the top floor of his property for the ‘perfect pap shots’. (Violet’s words). He’s actually been very jovial about the whole thing, making me a thick, black coffee and popping in to see how I’m doing before roaring with laughter. About what, I do not know. Still, other than impending death if I dangle too far off this balcony, I think we’re getting there.

  Far below, loves young dream walk hand-in-hand down a narrow, cobbled alleyway. Well, up and down the alleyway if I’m to be accurate. They’ve been up and down this thing so many times that I feel like I’m watching the tennis. If other people attempt to cross the street Violet will stop and shout ‘NO, NO, NO. PHOTOSHOOT.’ Then she points at Chip and bellows, ‘FAMOUS’. The poor passers-by look scared and scurry off so that Chip and Violet can get back to their endless walking up and down. They stop to hug. They stop to share a ‘secret’ kiss. Violet does her best impression of being wistful and in love. Chip receives a bollocking every time he checks his phone. It really is romance at its finest.

  My neck is aching when Violet finally shouts up to ask how the pictures are looking. They’re grainy, which is to brief, and I’m not sure I can handle another one of these coffees, so I wave a thumbs up in their direction. Spaghetti and a bath beckon. Ooh, maybe at the same time?

  I’m ashamed to admit that finding out there’s no room service in our hotel got me a little miffed, until I remembered that I’m not the actual queen and told myself to get a chuffing grip. I’m in Italy! In the lakes! I can eat spaghetti in the bath when I get home (maybe?) but right now I should be making the most of this unexpected trip. Violet has plans with Chip tonight so I’ve tagged along with the crew and we’re sat outside a charmingly tatty restaurant. Vines dangle down from the canopy overhead and the vast lake stretches out in front of us. I breathe in the air, which smells of tomatoes and garlic, and watch little boats zoom across the water like skimming pebbles.

  ‘So tell us more about the new girl,’ says Pete, one of the runners.

  ‘Ooh yes, what’s she like to work for?’ chimes in Sally, a technical director.

  Grateful for the pitcher of chianti being set down next to me, I say, ‘Violet is, um, very exacting and she knows what she likes.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ winces Pete. ‘If I have to organise another last-minute full body wax for a shitting reality TV star before we can coax them on to set, I’m going to quit.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ says the guy sat next to me, a scriptwriter called Steve. ‘Pete complains a lot. And he never quits. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I think this is the first time that a newbie has brought her own personal photographer to filming,’ Pete continues, ignoring Steve. ‘She’s bound to be a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Pete, that’s Jasmine’s boss you’re talking about. Stop being such a dick!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I reply, thinking that poor Pete doesn’t know the half of it. But as we’ve only just met and I don’t want to sound unprofesh, I steer clear of gossiping about my employer. I busy myself filling our glasses with berry red wine, shovelling the most mouth-watering mushroom tortellini into my chops and trying not to cough every time someone says something super indiscreet about the stars of the show. Like, who knew that there’s a fixer on set whose job it is to deliver whatever the cast members want? Violet is going to love that. Although, wait, I might actually do that for her already? I think back to that time she wanted to eat only Lebanese food and sent me out to get some at 11pm because ‘THEY’RE NOT EVEN ON DELIVEROO FFS’. (Her words and also my words as I traipsed across town in the middle of the night.)

  ‘So I said to Allegra, “If you don’t want to find yourself splashed across the gossip websites on a night out, maybe wear a bra, pants and some actual clothes next time?” She had literally gone out in a see-through lace dress and a thong, and then she was complaining that her butt was all over the internet the next day.’ Karen, a talent manager, laughs as she shares her memory. ‘It’s okay, they aren’t all like that,’ she adds, watching my eyes widen in surprise. ‘Some of the cast are actually super nice. And Violet isn’t the only newbie this summer, we’ve got an Italian prince joining the team and he is an absolute sweetie.’

  ‘Here he is now,’ says Steve, standing up and waving as a speedboat glides to a halt at the jetty next to us. I turn to watch an exquisitely dressed gent step off the boat. He’s wearing a pale blue linen shirt and box fresh Ray Bans. Sweet mother of pearl, he looks like David Gandy on a very good day.

  He waves as he walks over to us, a broad smile lighting up his tanned skin. The whole team gets up to say hello and I run my tongue over my teeth, desperately hoping that there’s no bits of tortellini stuck in there. Though why I’m trying to make a good impression with this Italian prince, I do not know. No doubt he has an army of stunning women lining up to date him already. I mean, just look at him. Dapper dress sense. Perfect poise. He’s getting closer. He smells terrific and I hardly ever use that word. I think I’m salivating?

  ‘. . .And this is Jasmine, a photographer who works for another new member of the cast,’ Karen leads Alessandro through the introductions. Now that we’re side by side, I realise that Alessandro must be a couple of inches shorter than me, which may just be the only thing he does not tick on my old type on paper. I’m a tall boys kind of girl. I’m also in the middle of a new dating mission. Though, absolute LOL that this absolute sort will suddenly be compelled to ask me out over the next few days.

  Do I curtsey? WTF is the protocol here?! I’m dithering like a trooper when Alessandro takes my hand and says in his delicious Italian accent, ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  ‘Pleasure. . . defo,’ I reply, blind-sided by his charm.

  Introductions over, Alessandro opens his arms wide and says, ‘Welcome to Lago di Como everybody! I hope you’ll love it here as much as I do and I am really excited to start filming. I’ll see you all tomorrow, bright and
early.’ And with that, he turns on his designer Italian loafers and hops back into his boat.

  Someone might have just developed a very inappropriate work crush.

  Bright and early was an understatement. I barely had time to devour one mini Nutella this morning before we were piling into the back of minivans and driving to set but, guys, it’s going to be okay because I stashed a few extra pots into the back pocket of my jeans before I left. Surely the whole point of a hotel breakfast buffet is that you snaffle enough supplies for lunch as well? It’s not long before we pull up at a stunning villa, huge pine trees standing to attention out front and a rolling lawn taking your eye down to the lake itself. It. Is. Glorious.

  The crew get to work setting up and I mill about, soaking up the scenery and attempting to stifle a yawn. I was up pretty late working on an edit of those ruddy pap shots last night, finally pinging them over to Violet’s PR just after midnight. She messaged first thing to say that she ‘loves them’ and expects ‘the story to break’ later on today. Barf. Violet is going to be unbearable when she and Chip go public.

  ‘Do you want to come with?’ Sally asks as she spots me idly running my finger along the banister in the huge entrance hall.

  ‘Okay!’ I reply, grateful for something to do. Violet still hasn’t emerged from her slumber because obviously, so I head into the dining room and help to set up the cameras. The table has two vases brimming with orange blossom on it which reminds me of Violet’s flowers. It seems a shame that Chip’s grand gesture should be abandoned so soon and I make a mental note to get back in touch with Violet’s PR. Maybe she could nip in, rescue the flowers and donate them somewhere? Like an old people’s home? It would be sad for them to go to waste.

  Sally’s telling me about her job working for the production company behind Totally Toffs and I’m trying to play it cool whenever a cast mate comes over to chat to us about today’s filming. I know that they’re just normal human beings really, but I’ve seen them on my TV screen and I’m a bit star struck. They’re all so shiny and glossy. Perfect teeth. Perfect skin. Plummy accents. Every single one of them is wearing items of clothing that cost more than a month’s rent for me, whereas I’m here in – you guessed it – jeans and a t-shirt. I did not expect it to be so hot! It’s almost stifling and that lone fan whizzing around on the ceiling is not helping.

 

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