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

by Hannah Doyle

  I frantically call up a cab while Violet slips a sarong from the new range around her waist and stalks off.

  ‘You can keep the swimwear!’ Becky With The Clipboard calls after her, somewhat pointlessly. Violet never leaves a shoot without half inching something. Then Becky turns to me and says, ‘You saved the day today. Thanks, doll.’

  I know it’s a crap idea to get hung up on what could have been. My brain knows that too. Yet sometimes, while I’m happily doing a great job of blocking out all that shoulda-woulda-coulda bollocks, my brain’s like HEY JASMINE why don’t we go through 394 ways your life could be better right now?! Doesn’t that sound like fun?

  Then off it goes, plucking little gems from thin air while I deflate like a cooling soufflé. Right now we’ve already marched through the need for new camera kit versus my bank balance and my frustration over letting Violet walk all over me again. Why can’t I just stand up for myself? I’m in my mid-twenties FFS! Am I literally the only person still too scared to address a work problem with their employer?

  At least I’m on the tube, finally heading home after the shit show formerly known as today at work, with a massive burger in my hands. This carriage is full of people either heading out for the night or staggering back home after one post-work drink turned into six. The first kind of people are looking at me with positive disgust. No sober tube-goer likes to watch another sober tube-goer eating. The second half have developed wild eyes as they stare at my burger with unbridled envy. I burrow further into my corner seat and take a bite. Juicy. But not as juicy as tonight was meant to be. It’s wedding weekend so I should be holed up in a hotel with my boyfriend James by now. We’d probably have finished dinner and would be back in our bedroom for the main course (winky face). The next day I’d pull my incredibly expensive dress on and James would say something like, ‘You look so beautiful in your incredibly expensive dress, I think you make it look even more incredibly expensive than it already is.’ The wedding would be a roaring success and I’d end the weekend with a boyfriend more smitten with me than ever.

  Except he wasn’t smitten with me at all, and now the only thing putting a smile on my face is this burger. But gherkin. Yuk. I surreptitiously spit it out.

  ‘Enjoying that?’

  A PERSON is trying to talk to me. ON THE TUBE. Don’t they know the rules? No one talks to anyone. Ever. I pointedly turn my music up.

  ‘Excuse me. . .’

  Another attempt. I see what’s happening here. This person must be unhinged. I make a show of salting my fries and start to hum along.

  ‘It’s just that you’ve got. . .’

  Dude get the hint! I don’t want to engage you in any possible way. So far I’ve managed to avoid eye contact but now this weirdo is waving at me from the seat opposite and I’ve no choice but to meet his gaze. He’s your average moustachioed creative, wearing granny-curtains masquerading as a short-sleeved shirt and round, tortoise-shell glasses. I scowl.

  ‘I know this goes against the rules,’ he says, ‘but I just wanted to tell you. . .’

  ‘Okay, I get it,’ I butt in, mouth full of chip. ‘You’re drunk. You can see my burger and you want a piece of it. But listen here, buster. . .’ Buster? ‘This is my burger. I’ve been stuck at work trying to polish a turd all day. I should be at a hotel with my boyfriend right now but he dumped me less than two weeks ago so instead I’m going back to my empty flat where I’ll probably fall asleep with half a Whispa on my face. So no, you cannot have any of my burger.’ I shuffle my body to the left so I’m no longer facing this potentially unhinged weirdo.

  ‘Um, no, I’m not drunk and I actually have my own food,’ he waves to the brown bag at his feet. ‘And I hope you don’t think I’m weird for talking to you like this. Though maybe you are too. . . you’re wearing an inflatable unicorn lilo as a necklace, after all.’

  The cheek of this unhinged weirdo!

  ‘I’m just quietly going about my business, thank you very much.’

  He holds his hands up. I don’t know why the beginnings of a tiny smile are trying to bust out from my lips so I frown even harder. What a double-edged sword my sexy anger is turning out to be.

  ‘I’ve been trying to tell you that you have gherkin on your chin,’ he says, pointing towards my face.

  ‘Gherkin. On your chin.’

  Right. I swipe at it with the sleeve of my cardigan.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Unhinged Weirdo munch his chicken wrap. My stomach rumbles despite the two beef patties working their way through my digestive system.

  ‘It’s nice to see that I’m not the only one eating a Dinner of Shame,’ he smiles. His hair is the same colour as his russet beard and he’s pulled it into a topknot. He is so not my type. So why is he talking to me? And why won’t he get the hint? And why do I feel compelled to chat to him anyway?

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude earlier. It’s just that you’re probably a crazy person and I don’t want to encourage you,’ I say sympathetically.

  He laughs. He’s got quite a nice laugh.

  ‘You’re right,’ he nods. ‘I probably am. Who in their right mind would try to strike up a conversation with a pretty brunette with gherkin on her chin and a unicorn around her neck?’

  ‘You think I’m pretty?’ I blink.

  ‘That’s all you took from my last sentence?’

  ‘It’s always nice to hear a compliment. Unless, were you talking about Ulrikka?’

  ‘You’ve named the lilo?’ he asks, peering at me over his glasses.

  ‘She’s a rescue unicorn, actually,’ I say, explaining that she’s the only beacon of light after a tough day at work while he listens attentively. ‘So, why are you eating dinner on the tube?’

  Arnie – that’s his name – has had a tough day too. He spent it writing code for a new app he’s working on and, well, I’ll be honest, he lost me after he first used the word ‘code’. I think he’s realised because now he’s moved on to telling stories about the people he works with, which is way more on my wavelength. I find myself chuckling at his jokes and feeling strangely brightened by his presence. Plus, his dinner looks all kinds of tempting. I keep staring at his Zinger and wishing it was in my mouth. (Not a euphemism).

  ‘This is me,’ I say as the train starts to break. ‘Thanks for putting a smile on my face.’

  ‘Can I get your number?’ He looks at me with those pale grey eyes I don’t usually go for. They twinkle a little bit. There’s Zinger all up in that beard. Arnie is exactly the kind of guy I wouldn’t have even registered a week or so ago, just your average hipster going about his cortado-drinking day. He is ideal anti-list material.

  ‘Sure,’ I squeak.

  My vibrating phone buzzes me awake and I open one eye the minimum possible amount. Turns out I’m in bed with all my clothes still on. My forehead feels sticky and I reach up to discover that half a melted Whispa had glued itself between my eyebrows, as predicted. Sitting upright, I take a look at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. It’s like I’ve had a really, really bad experience at the brows salon. Removing the chocolate monobrow and destroying the evidence via the medium of my mouth I grab my phone to see who has interrupted my Friday night snooze. It is 11:05pm. What a liberty.

  Hi, it’s Arnie. The not actually crazy one from the tube earlier. (He’s protesting way too much). Fancy meeting up for a drink tomorrow?

  Oh my god. It’s Arnie the crazy one from the tube earlier. He wants to meet up for a drink. WTF do I do now?!?!?!?!

  Mila HELP I was high on burgers tonight and gave my number to a guy who is 100 per cent NOT my type and now he’s asked me out and I don’t know what to do.

  The double tick appears and I drum my fingers impatiently, filling in the gaps while I wait.

  He started up a conversation with me on the tube.

  He’s clearly insane.

  I’m calling him Unhinged Weirdo.

  TOPKNOT AND BEARD

  . . .
<
br />   You know you’re still messaging me, right? Arnie replies.

  Sweet baby Jane, I did not leave our Whatsapp chat. After a hurried copy and paste, I fire the crucial information over to actual Mila and throw my phone underneath my bed to keep me out of trouble. Then I busy myself with big questions, like a) should I actually should try HD brows and b) why am I so embarrassing at life? My mobile keeps illuminating the underside of my bed and I tip my head off the side to take a look. There’s so much crap under here. Ooh wait is that an uneaten chocolate bar? The glow from my phone reveals that it’s just a chocolate-bar-shaped log of dust. Disappointed, I decide to read the incoming messages from Mila.

  This is so great. YASSSSSS Jasmine! Another date with a guy who is not your type on paper. DATE TWO ON THE MISSION! You NEED to go for it. Topknots are hot and also HELLO point one on your anti-list. And I quote “1. Blond, beardy, topknot?” Is he blond too?

  He’s got red hair like the colour of autumn leaves.

  OMG even better. You’re basically contractually obliged to go Xxxxx

  Shit. Did Mila make me drunk-sign a contract the other night? I would not put it past her.

  A message pings in from Arnie.

  On second thoughts. . .

  Oh. Of course he has seen the light of day. I’m wondering why I feel disappointed that he’s backing out of the date offer already as I scroll down to his final message.

  Maybe we could get dinner too. In a restaurant rather than on the tube. There’s a pie and mash place near me if you fancy it? Bring Ulrikka if you must.

  Well, there’s a turn up.

  I’d like that, I type back before stopping and wondering what the hell has happened to Jasmine.

  I’ve accepted. WTF. We’re going for dinner. I tell Mila.

  Yeah, it’s still me, Arnie replies.

  *Facepalm*

  Violet has Big Plans for her romance with Chip. I know this because the words Big Plans are written on a new hot pink notebook she’s had delivered, which I just opened because I’m apparently also her personal secretary.

  ‘We’re going to be the new Harry and Meghan,’ she’s saying through the hole in a massage table.

  ‘Please shhhh,’ encourages the therapist. ‘Just listen to the sounds of the music. Relax. I like to bring complete calm for my customers.’

  Violet tries to settle back into silence but her toes twitch impatiently.

  Twelve seconds later. . .

  ‘I’m so excited for our future. Chip is my perfect man.’

  The therapist makes a low humming noise.

  Violet’s fingers start to twitch in unison with her toes. She’s completely naked under a few strategically placed towels, lying flat out on the table which has been set up in her living room.

  ‘Do you watch Totally Toffs? He’s the main one. He’s so famous. We’ve been out of lots of discreet dinners and I’m just hoping that he’ll ask me to be his actual girlfriend soon. Imagine the publicity!’

  A flash of irritation streaks across the masseuse’s serene face.

  ‘Let your mind empty. Think of nothing but waves crashing on a secluded beach. The sun gently warming your face. You can hear birds in the background. . .’

  Only Violet can hear nothing but Chip and world domination. She leaps up from the table and, completely naked, thanks the lady for her massage. ‘Jasmine, did my notebook arrive? We have work to do. First, I’m going to need you to find every single interview Chip has ever done. I’m on a mission to become his perfect woman so we need to know him inside out.’

  ‘Here it is,’ I say, attempting to hand her the pad while not looking at any naked bits. It’s not that easy. ‘Do you. . . want to get dressed first?’

  Mila is busy moving the contents of my wardrobe onto my bed and singing things like ‘DATE NIGHT’ at the top of her voice, which is doing drastically bad things to my makeup application. I rub off yet another wonky eyeliner wing and huff a bit.

  ‘Jas, you’re going on a date, not for a tooth extraction,’ Mila says, flopping onto my bed and sending clothes flying. ‘Can you at least try to be excited?’

  ‘I am excited,’ I say carefully.

  ‘Are you really?’ She’s suspicious. She knows me too well.

  ‘Yes! I am very excited. . . about pie.’

  Mila groans. ‘And what about the fact that you’re meeting a new man for dinner?’

  I make a ‘meh’ noise by way of an answer.

  ‘WHY?’ bellows my best friend.

  I pick up a lipstick and decide to slick some on. Mila and Mike are going to the cinema and normally I’d be third-wheeling with them. Sometimes Mike buys me candy floss and I pretend that he and Mila are my parents. Wait, that’s a weird thing to admit. I definitely don’t do that.

  ‘Maybe because I’ve nicknamed him Unhinged Weirdo and not in a cute way?’ I say. ‘Not to mention the fact that he isn’t my type.’

  Mila frowns ferociously. ‘That’s the whole point. Besides, French dude wasn’t your type either and you were excited about that date.’

  She’s right. I rack my brains to get to the bottom of this funk. ‘I think the whole being in France thing made a difference. You just get giddy with the heat, you know? Plus, Too Much Thierry looked cute whereas I have no idea if Arnie is cute or not, because I couldn’t see past all that hair.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you need to go,’ Mila says, handing me a pair of jeans covered in huge, rainbow-coloured sequins. ‘You’ve got to give him a chance. Never mind the fact that he has a beard, it should be what’s behind the beard that counts. You can be so superficial when it comes to what your date looks like and that hasn’t led to much success, has it? So let’s start focusing in on personality, okay?’

  ‘Alright Oprah. No, seriously, there’s a slight chance that you might be right about that and I am grateful for all of the effort you’re going to to help me out. I’ll tell you what you’re definitely not right about, though. These jeans. They’re covered in giant sequins! Do you want me to look like a knob on this date? Where did you even find them?’

  ‘They’re mine.’

  ‘Oh. Soz about the knob comment. Can’t I just wear normal denim jeans and a t-shirt?’

  ‘That’s what you always wear!’ She frowns.

  ‘It’s what I feel comfortable in.’

  ‘Okay fine, but at least sling on a necklace or some bloody earrings. What do you think Arnie will wear? Braces? Shoes without socks? A fisherman beanie?’

  ‘Stop! You’re winding me up on purpose.’

  ‘Maybe a little bit,’ she grins. ‘Listen, your date sounds like a snazzy dresser and I like that. Surely you’re bored of going out with boys in suits all the time?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, pulling on some jeans because obviously. I don’t own anything to keep my legs warm other than jeans and some unmentionable pink leggings that are for prancing about at home purposes only.

  ‘The answer is yes. So why are you being so sniffy about Arnie when it sounds like he’s the boy version of you?’

  ‘Because that’s not my. . .’ I stop short because Mila will kill me with her bare hands if I finish that sentence.

  ‘Just go and have fun. No pressure!’ she says, though it’s more of an order.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Date Two: Pie with The IT Guy

  Arnie is wearing tennis socks pulled up to his ankles. Yes that’s right. Arnie is one hundred per cent hipster. Which is fine, I tell myself, repeating Mila’s ‘no pressure’ mantra in my head. I do admire the self-assured air of a hipster. But can I date one? My usual dates turn up from work in a white shirt and suit trousers. Or if it’s the weekend, a slightly less smart version of the same. Maybe I should have worn those sequined jeans after all. I’m busy dithering as we order drinks and I think Arnie can sense that my mind is in turmoil, so he starts chatting.

  Opening gambit: ‘Do you polish turds for a living?’

  That’s it. I knew he was a crazy. Why didn’t I just trus
t my gut? I’m desperately trying to remember my safe word when our server comes over with a chalkboard menu and. . .

  ‘Pie!’ I cheer, rubbing my hands together. We put in our orders while Arnie asks me more about my job, reminding me that when we met I told him I spent the day polishing a turd. I’d tried to block the Violet / unicorn / shoot of doom day from my mind but I’m also seriously impressed that he’s remembered some facts from our conversation, which is not a date trait I’m used to.

  Soon enough we’re chatting away like old friends, Arnie trying to explain more about his job (computing / apps / something creative and techie which I can’t quite wrap my brain around) and why he doesn’t have an employer, just a bunch of people who ‘collaborate’. I’d roll my eyes but his enthusiasm is utterly endearing. He’s spent the last five minutes giving me his potted history and I’m warming to his self-deprecating sense of humour. He even asked me what wine I like and we’re now sharing a bottle of Malbec together, whereas my usual type would just order a round of shots and have done with it. This feels very civilised in comparison. Except for the bit where I shot wine out of my nose after he told me he’s learning to whittle wood in his spare time.

  As Arnie talks, he tucks a strand of fiery red hair behind his ear. It is perfectly undone, like the hair of a Nordic god, and means that I can finally get a good look at his face. He has clear, grey eyes and pale, freckled skin. Arnie’s handsome in a hipster-barber kind of way, though he also has pie in his beard. I usually date a man with poise and categorically no foodstuffs on his face, because in my relationships I’m the one who spills shit down myself at the most inopportune moments. You can’t date someone who does exactly the same, can you?

  Still, I’m definitely having fun tonight and there’s been none of the standard, boring date chat. I haven’t even had to pretend that I’m up to date with current affairs, because we’ve been too busy playing match the celebrity to the drink (eg Paris Hilton / can of Stella). I’ve told him all about my job with Violet and how things went at Cannes, only just stopping myself in time when I was on the cusp of blurting out about our matching heart shaped bikini waxes.