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

by Hannah Doyle

  ‘It’s okay. You’re right, Holly was basically blessed. Is it weird to admit that I always felt more confident in her presence? Like, she would literally light up the room and you could see how much people loved to be around her. I was happy basking in all that reflected glory.’

  ‘What? That’s not what it looked like to me. You both lit up the room, everybody wanted to be around both of you. I don’t think it was a one-way street Jas, you encouraged each other to be brilliant. Remember that weekend we had at mine when we were sixteen? My mum was away and also, my mum wouldn’t know parental responsibilities if they punched her in the nuts. That’s why I love your mum so much Jas, she’s so fun to hang around with but she’s also, first and foremost, a mum. Mine has literally no clue.’

  I frown. Mila’s mum has always been useless. ‘You know Mum pretty much sees you as a second daughter?’

  ‘Thank goodness for Linda,’ she smiles and I give her hand a squeeze. ‘As for my actual mother, she came round with a house-warming gift for Mike and me the other day. It was the candle that I’d bought her for Mother’s Day! She’d obviously lit it, decided she didn’t like the smell and stuffed it back in the box ready to gift-recycle. I know it’s not really a big issue, but I’d love it if she paid a bit more attention to, I dunno, me?’

  It’s stories like these that make me want to march over to Mila’s mum’s house and ask her why the chuff she’s so rubbish. She always has and always will put her own social life before her daughter’s and it makes me really sad for my best friend.

  Mila shrugs it off. ‘Anyway, that weekend my mum was away with friends and we all sat around on the first night, drinking cider and talking about the people we fancied. Ben had a crush on. . .’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Ben grimaces.

  ‘OUR HEADMISTRESS!’ Mila and I chime, collapsing into giggles.

  Ben folds his arms. ‘Yes, well, she was hot and an older woman. Besides, you fancied the PE teacher.’

  ‘That’s not weird though,’ Mila argues. ‘He was fit and only, like, ten years older than us. Your crush was nearly a hundred years old and she wore her glasses on a chain. Anyway, I fancied that boy in our year who everyone thought was the coolest. . . what was his name? Matt something? Matt Richards! Jasmine and Holly encouraged me to call him that night.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember now!’ I say.

  ‘You both made me feel so confident and like I could do it. So we all sat around while I rang up Matt Richards. When he said yes Holly squealed so loud that you threw a cushion at her face!’

  I laugh at the memories. ‘Didn’t he take you to MacDonalds?’

  ‘Yes, and he spent the whole time asking about you, Jas. He obviously had a crush on you.’

  ‘That wasn’t the official reason you “broke up” after one date though, was it? Didn’t you just tell everyone that he was boring?’

  ‘I had to save face,’ Mila grins. ‘And you were too busy working on an art project to be bothered by boys at that point, remember?’

  ‘I’d forgotten that. Look at Past Jasmine prioritising work over boys like a bawss. Is it weird to think that my life was more sorted in my teens than it is now?’

  Ben shakes his head and says softly: ‘I think sixteen-year-old Jasmine would be so proud of you. You’re an awesome photographer, for a start.’

  ‘YES YOU ARE! And you’ve managed to fit in some time to find new types of boys this summer as well. Where are we, date number four now? So according to the list, that means that it could just be three more dates until you find your one. Imagine if Matt Richards came back into our lives. . .’ Mila glazes over at the thought.

  ‘Mike is a thousand times better than Matt Richards,’ I point out. ‘He wore tracksuit bottoms all the time.’

  ‘Well, obviously we’re going to have to Facebook stalk him now,’ she says, while Ben wanders off to hang with Mike and the BBQ.

  Having established that Matt Richards has neither weathered well nor given up the trackie bottom habit over the past ten years, I stretch my arm around Mila for a snuggle.

  ‘Do you realise that that’s the first conversation we’ve had about Holly this decade?’ she points out.

  ‘It’s been so nice to reminisce about those days.’

  ‘You are brave, Jazzy. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.’ I nestle in to the cuddle. ‘So, are you going to reply to her email?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Baby steps. Besides, tonight isn’t about writing emails to stupid douchebags. We’re celebrating! I cannot believe you have moved in with a real-life boy, Mils. You are officially the most grown-up grown up I know.’

  ‘What would the person who hates your guts most in the world say about you?’

  I squirm my seat.

  ‘Um?’

  ‘That’s all you’ve got? UM? We’re not going to let some no-hoper who can barely string a sentence together to take charge of this social media shoot, are we?’

  ‘Ummmm. . .’ I’m starting to sweat and not just because it’s hot in here. My interviewer is mean. My interviewer is also Mila. I’d been panicking hard about the Jump gig ever since Becky’s email came through, mostly because I haven’t had a job interview in one bazillion years, so Mila suggested we did a practice one together to sharpen up my skills. I’d envisaged a lovely breakfast on the terrace, reminiscing about last night’s BBQ high-jinx, enjoying a croissant or two while watching the sun rise high into the sky, with a couple of questions thrown in for good measure. Oh no. Mila’s wearing a shirt and a pencil skirt, for a start. She looks like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary. She’s fashioned a makeshift interview desk from her dining table (I’d say Mike’s, because she’s only been living here for a matter of days, but obviously Mila has already completely taken over) and she’s scribbling notes on a pad. She’s also wearing glasses which I know for a fact are not prescription.

  Mila drums her fingers and scowls at me.

  ‘I’m not a no-hoper?’ I try to act assertive but everything coming out of my mouth sounds like a question. ‘And I will be very good at taking charge of this shoot.’

  ‘How and why?’ barks Mila.

  Dear lord, I hope she isn’t like this in her actual job. Mila’s a lawyer and yes, I do regularly wonder how I ended up best mates with the girl who is great at everything. She’s got the serious job, the long-term relationship, the hair of Meghan Markle. On the flipside I’ve got a dogsbody job, no relationship whatsoever and hair like wilted cabbage. When Mila told me she wanted to be a barrister one day, I suggested she practise her flat white technique on me. But despite all of that, Mila seems to love me back. Whether we’re pissing ourselves with laughter over an old sitcom or squabbling over who picks up the prosecco bill at our favourite bar, there’s no one I’d rather spend my time with.

  ‘Babes, are you okay? Did I go in too hard with the questions?’

  ‘A bit hard. I’m starting to feel like one of the people you cross examine in court. I bet when you’re dressed like Santa it’s even more frightening.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘You know, white hair, red outfit. . . Santa.’

  ‘Yeah. . . No. I think you’re referring to what high court judges’ wear there, sweet pea. You know I’m not a high court judge, right?’

  ‘Of course! You’re Badass Barrister QC, remember?’ When Mila qualified, I was so excited that I came up with a whole new TV show for her in my head. A bit like Kavanagh QC off of the nineties meets Suits. I really should write that plot down because I think TV producers would snap it up.

  ‘I’m not actually a QC and your knowledge of the British legal system is, frankly, scary,’ Mila points out.

  ‘Not as scary as your questioning. Can we take a break? You could finally make me a flat white.’

  Throwing her hands in the air like she’s given up on life, Mila pads off in the direction of her kitchen.

  Chip is out of the dog house. I know this because he and Violet are skipping through St James
’s Park hand in hand while muggins over here takes photos of them. They trot over bridges, look out across the lake and stop to share an ice cream. It’s quite cute, really. Things have been peachy since Chip explained to Violet that nothing happened with the girl he got papped with and now they’re making the most of Chip’s time off by getting together some snaps for the blog. Proceedings are quite often interrupted by kids who’ve seen the show and are ‘tohhhhh-dally obsessed’ with their relationship, which Violet loves. If I thought her getting recognised before was sort of irritating, it’s nothing compared to now. Turns out a lot of people watched the Totally Toffs summer spin off. (Including me, on catch up, but please don’t tell anyone? Especially not Violet!)

  Anyhow, it’s good to see her happy again and I will be forever grateful to her for scraping me off the floor and bundling me onto the flight back from Switzerland. Violet reports that she woke up to find me muttering the word ‘douche’ at any passers-by, which I blame fully on Holly’s email. Thankfully I’ve managed to block it from my mind, but what I do remember is that Violet was super sweet about the whole thing and even. . . wait for it. . . insisted that she did her own unpacking when we got back to London. I was beginning to wonder whether the champagne had made me hallucinate until she bundled me into a taxi, paid for it to take me back to mine and as I was driven off, I turned to see her stood at London City hailing her own cab. I still don’t think I’ve got over the shock of it all.

  ‘Look at those pink rhododendrons!’ Violet beckons us all over. ‘Can we get some pictures here Jasmine? I’m absolutely certain that rhododendrons are going to be the new wisteria.’

  ‘The new wisteria?’ Chip looks baffled.

  ‘Yes honey bun!’ Let’s not even go there. ‘Like wisteria was the new cherry blossom a while back.’ I’m pretty sure Chip still doesn’t get it but she pops a kiss on his nose and he gamely marches over to the hot pink flowers. Falling easily into a relaxed pose, he stands proudly next to his beautiful girlfriend. Chip is exactly like you’d imagine and the kind of guy who I might just have gone for myself, if Mila hadn’t told me to ditch my type and if super posh, super handsome men suddenly started falling at my feet. (Al Fresco Al was quite clearly a fluke). He’s tall, with neatly coiffed dark brown hair. He’s got the long but muscular frame and the fancy accent. I hope, for Violet’s sake, that he turns out to be a keeper.

  ‘Great, I think we’re done?’ Violet looks up to me for confirmation.

  ‘I’ve got loads I can work with here.’

  ‘Do you fancy a late lunch?’ she asks Chip. ‘Maybe you could work from home this afternoon, Jasmine?’

  Um, yes please! If I whizz through these edits then I might just have time to get going on my own website!

  I am bringing my A game today. No, wait, my A-plus game. I haven’t felt this fired up in a long, long time. Probably hit my peak when I was offered the place at Bede Academy, tbh. It feels like things have been on a downward slope since I had to call them and turn it down. I couldn’t skip off to America when Mum was at home, shell-shocked and sad.

  Not that there’s any point in dwelling on that right now. Because today, Jasmine is going to slay! If there’s one thing I love, and I *think* I’m good at, it’s taking photos.

  There’s just one hurdle to jump first. WTF do I wear? Choosing an outfit for a job interview is a total minefield. I imagine it’s a lot more simple if you’ve got a sensible job or, better still, something with a designated uniform. But photographer? I don’t have an office and if I turned up in a pencil skirt I’d get laughed out the building. Then again, I can’t wear my grubby old trainers and jeans with holes in, can I? After an embarrassing amount of time spent trying on all the clothes I own, I’ve opted for some black, wide-legged capri pants and a black cotton shirt. I’ve stuck my new gold necklace on and added a pair of black loafers. There’s not really much I can do about the shabby emerald green backpack which holds my camera, but I did give my face a few extra minutes in front of the mirror this morning. I’m wearing eyeliner! On a school day! And a smidge of lipstick!

  Feeling all kinds of enthused, I hop off the tube and stride through Soho. Mila’s ‘constructive criticism’ is still ringing in my ears and I am having a bloody good go at believing in myself.

  I can do this!

  I will bag this job!

  I. . . ooh, a newsagent’s!

  With at least ten minutes to spare before I’m due to meet up with Becky and her boss I slink into the shop, that familiar smell of paper and chewing gum filling my nostrils, and gravitate towards the magazine stands. Soho newsagents always have the best magazines. Totally niche and one hundred pounds a pop, but you feel incredibly arty when you’ve got one in your paws.

  Becky’s office is not nearly as intimidating as I thought it might be. It’s actually super chill to the point of being odd. I’ve been ushered into a deckchair next to a bright pink flamingo, there’s fake grass under my feet and a couple of employees are having a game of ping pong in the corner. I think they’re brainstorming? Also, there’s a juice in my hand with one of those little cocktail umbrellas poking out of it.

  The receptionist sticks her head around a tropical palm tree and calls to me. ‘Becky and Jade are ready to see you. Get the lift up to the third floor and it’s the first office on the right.’

  By the time I reach their floor I’m starting to feel like I actually am on holiday. Until Becky opens the door to her office and I hear boss Jade bellowing from inside.

  ‘SEND HER BLOODY IN WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL SHITTING DAY HAVE WE?’

  I freeze. Becky flinches and pushes me through the doors. It’s a little bit different in here. Gone are the palm trees, the deckchairs and those adorable plastic flamingos. In this office, everything is white. White leather chairs. White desk. Heck, even the pencils are white. Behind the white desk sits Jade, a beautifully blow-dried mane of brown hair cascading around her shoulders. She’s wearing a white dress (because obviously) accessorised only with her golden, tanned skin. She looks like an angel.

  ‘Shall we get the fuck on with this?’ she barks, instantly losing the halo-status. Jade motions for me to sit down and for Becky to shut the door in one fell swoop of her hand.

  Becky pulls me down next to her.

  ‘Jasmine, welcome to Buzz. I’ll cut to the chase. We were impressed with the photos you organised for the swimwear campaign with Violet. From what I hear, you managed to turn a dogs’ dinner into something quite stylish. I’m sure Becky’s filled you in on our new relationship with Jump so, tell me, what could you bring to the campaign?’ She asks, laying a bright white pencil down on her empty desk and piercing me with her icy blue eyes. They’re so blue and mesmerising, surely they have to be coloured contacts?

  Focus, Jasmine! Do not fudge this up!

  I clear my throat.

  ‘I have a lot to offer,’ I reply, surprising myself with how confident my voice sounds. ‘I’ve been working with Violet for years now and her Instagram feed, which I manage, has proved hugely popular. I guess my pictures help to engage people?’

  ‘But there’s a difference between taking pictures of someone farting about sipping coffee all day long to creating engaging content for a fabulous fashion brand. Could you deal with the change of style?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I nod, perhaps a bit too much. My head’s bounding up and down like one of those nodding car toys and Becky gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. I try to control my neck muscles.

  ‘I also take pics for my own platforms which are totally different. I go for more arty shots. I don’t have the time to post as much as I’d like but–’

  ‘Would you have the time for this campaign, then? The shoot alone will take three days, and then there’s the planning.’

  ‘Definitely.’ I can worry about dealing with Violet another time.

  ‘Okay. Well I’ve got to say that I’ve been impressed with what I’ve seen from you so far. I’m taking a chance on you, Jasmine. Don’t fuck this
up. Becky, anything else?’

  OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. My stomach’s doing somersaults and my head’s started bobbing around again in excitement. Jade looks wildly displeased. I turn to Becky with a huge smile on my face and she’s grinning right back.

  ‘Totally amazing! We just need to dot the “i”s and cross the “t”s!’ Becky says, turning to her clipboard. ‘A little background info first. Let’s see. . . Where did you study?’

  ‘As in secondary school?’ This seems thorough, but then I haven’t had a formal job interview in yonks.

  ‘Ha ha! Always the quipper!’

  Jade looks like she might stab us both with the very white pencil she’s now impatiently spinning between her fingers.

  ‘I meant where did you get your photography qualifications?’ Becky adds.

  ‘I. . . what? No, sorry, I don’t. I mean, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any.’

  The smile falls from Becky’s face. I turn to Jade. She looks thunderous. And suddenly it’s like I’ve got tunnel vision. In the distance, I can hear Jade shouting things like ‘waste of time’ and ‘FFS Becky’ and ‘get the hell out of my office’. But the ringing in my ears is getting louder and louder. I can feel Becky’s hand on my back, ushering me out of the building and whispering apologies and asking if I’m okay. I nod dumbly. ‘I’m fine.’ But of course, I’m not. How stupid I was to think I’d get this job? With no qualifications. With no experience. With, well, nothing when you think about it.

  It’s raining by the time I arrive and the extra make-up I applied this morning is half way down my face, but that’s the least of my worries. My clothes are soaked through and the bloody capri pants have absorbed water from the ground up, so I’m basically wearing wet bell bottoms right now.

  I knock on the door and shift from foot to foot.

  ‘Is it wet out, kiddo?’ Ben grabs my soggy hands and pulls me off the street.