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

by Hannah Doyle

  Hurry up and swallow, woman!

  Mission finally accomplished, I take a sip of water and return my date’s gaze.

  ‘I like you Jasmine.’

  ‘I, um, oh! Thanks ever so!’

  Gawd.

  Thankfully Alessandro has the good breading to ignore my ridiculous waffling, his beautiful face inching closer and closer to mine until our lips meet.

  MILA! Back from my date. It was SEXY! And he was a true gentleman, insisting that I went out to take some photos before we ate bread and olive oil in the sunshine. Date number three with Alessandro Al Fresco and I AM DECEASED. New type on paper score: 5/7

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’m rudely awoken by my phone beeping and am about to shove it under a pillow when I spot approx one bazillion Whatsapp messages. I open the most recent, squinting as my eyes get used to the light pouring in through the blind in my hotel room.

  Got something to tell me, mate? It’s a message from Ben, rounded off with an Italian flag, a crown and the winky face emoji. Then there’s one from my mum which cryptically says, ‘He’s rather handsome!’, and a whole load from Mila which are mostly made up of the gold medal emoji.

  What is going on?

  I finally flick on to my Facebook app, flashing red with an alarming 32 notifications, and suddenly the situation becomes All. Too. Clear. Susan Jones, who was in second set science with me at high school, has tagged me in a screengrab. Of the biggest news and showbiz website.

  ‘OMG I can’t believe my old friend Jasmine is dating an Italian prince!’

  My stomach lurches and not just because Facebook is So Awful. I haven’t spoken to fucking Susan since we argued over who got to operate the Bunsen burner but here she is, calling me an old friend and broadcasting my business on social media. Fucking Susan.

  I sit up in bed and even though I have a really bad feeling about this, I scroll through the comments.

  ‘Imagine the wedding!’

  ‘He’s so handsome, well done Jasmine, so pleased for you.’

  ‘Wow, it really is the ones you least expect who make something of themselves isn’t it? No offence Jasmine!’

  Someone’s posted a link to my page and thanks to faultless wifi, the article is soon writ large on my phone screen.

  AL FRISK-O! PRINCE ALESSANDRO’S SECRET AL FRESCO DATE WITH MYSTERY BRUNETTE

  And there we are. Blurry, long distance photos they may be, but you can still see me with a mouthful of bread, him with a strand of my hair in his hand. And then the next picture, Alessandro leaning in for the kiss which made my entire body feel like it was on fire. Here we are walking hand in hand back to his boat after our ‘secret date’.

  Having stared at all of the photographs in abject horror, I decide to torture myself further by reading the article.

  Italian aristo Alessandro Mazzi looked smitten with his new love during a very sexy secret date.

  The hot-blooded prince took his mystery brunette for a meal in the grounds of his family’s palatial Lake Como home.

  Alessandro, who counts models and movie stars among his list of exes, chose a somewhat left of field companion for his frisky al fresco date. We couldn’t help but notice her torn dress and the scrapes on her knees, not to mention the fact that she brought a tatty old backpack with her.

  Unable to read any more, I take the only sensible option left to me and throw my phone across the room. HOLY SHIT. Where did these photos come from? What the actual eff do I do now? And can someone please tell Fucking Susan to stop posting on my bloody Facebook?

  It takes me less than five minutes to edit a picture for Instagram and I can have a lunch for Violet ordered within three, but figuring out how to take my phone off vibrate? I’ve been burrowing around in my settings for seven whole minutes now and I’m still none the wiser. The constant buzz of notifications has my nerves jangling so I turn the whole thing off. Obviously I need to talk to Alessandro but I don’t have his mobile number and there’s work to do.

  I slink downstairs, cheeks burning as I find the rest of the crew waiting to head back to the villa for another day of filming.

  ‘If it isn’t our mystery brunette!’ calls Karen, wrapping an arm around me and guiding me to a seat next to her on the bus.

  ‘Please don’t. . . I’m mortified.’

  ‘Why? It’s great publicity, babes, don’t worry about it!’ Karen looks thrilled. I’ll tell you who isn’t thrilled. . . Violet. She’s absolutely steaming. She dragged me off the bus when we arrive at the villa and into the banquet room, whipping round to face me with a face full of rage.

  ‘Would you like to explain yourself?’ She says, thrusting her phone, open on the web page of doom, at me.

  ‘It was just a date,’ I look down at my toes. ‘And it was meant to be private.’

  ‘Oh please,’ Violet scoffs, her voice raised to new levels of shrill. I can see both cast and crew milling around by the opening to our room, which is just peachy. A dressing down from Violet is bad enough, but one with an audience?

  ‘You asked for time off from working with me so that you could go on a date?’ Violet rages on.

  ‘Yes I did. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s the first time in months I’d requested leave,’ I say quietly. Urgh. I know I should be sticking up for myself more, but I hate confrontation and for some reason, Violet in a bad mood seems to paralyse my sense of reason.

  ‘That’s as it may be,’ Violet spits. ‘But in the future, I’d appreciate a heads up when you plan to splash yourself across the news websites. Honestly, I did not think you had it in you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, glancing back to the dozen people who just so happen to have super important jobs to do within earshot of our argument. Those bastards. Oh and here’s Alessandro, joining the group. I will him not to listen while also hoping he sticks around long enough for me to talk to him when Violet is done shouting at me.

  ‘Don’t play the innocent! Are you seriously trying to pretend that you just so happened to be on a date with an Italian prince, who just so happens to be super famous, when a photographer just so happened to pop up and take pictures of you? Jasmine, I wasn’t born yesterday. You set those pap shots up because you were desperate for your own moment in the spotlight.’

  ‘I. . . wait, what?’ Violet thinks I was behind those grainy shots online today? I shoot a horrified look at Al and all I can see is disappointment flashing across his face. He turns on his heel and marches out of the villa before I have the chance to call after him.

  Shitting shit.

  ‘This week was meant to be about my big news, Jasmine,’ Violet has balled up her fists as she gets more annoyed. ‘Just look at this, your story has already had way more shares than mine and it’s only been up for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Violet this is so frustrating, I honestly had no idea that someone would follow us and take pictures.’

  ‘Like I believe that. You were just jealous of my relationship with Chip that you desperately tried to bag your own celebrity boyfriend. It’s pathetic. Alessandro is a sweet guy, he must have been feeling sorry for you and taken you out on a pity date. Why else would you manage to bag a date with an Italian prince? I mean, look at you! You are literally hopeless in the love department. You’re a disaster, Jasmine.’

  I’M NOT A DISASTER! WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN? AND HOW DID THIS COVERSATION GET SO PERSONAL?! All of these thoughts are screeching through my mind but I just can’t say them out loud. I cannot afford to jeopardise my job like that. So here I stand, sad at the situation and cross with myself while Violet rages on. ‘Do you know what, I think I can spare you for the rest of this trip. We’ve got plenty of blog material already, so I suggest you head home and take a break. I’ll call you when I’m back.’

  Mila is away for work so I’ve taken the next best option in a crisis and holed up at Ben’s house. I couldn’t even face going back to mine to pick up emergency essentials when I landed and so I’m currently slumped down a
t his kitchen table wearing a pair of Ben’s old joggers and a t-shirt with the words ‘this guy needs a beer’ written on it, an arrow pointing up to my face. I’ll be honest, this guy does need a beer.

  ‘Remind me again why you’re wearing my clothes when you have a suitcase full of stuff?’ Ben asks, pointing towards my luggage.

  ‘I didn’t have time to pack any pyjamas for Italy and this feels like a pyjamas kind of moment,’ I sniff.

  ‘Come here kiddo,’ he says, pulling me in for a big fat bear hug. I nestle into his armpit, which makes me feel even more emotional than when I turned up on his doorstep earlier this evening.

  ‘What am I going to do? Violet hasn’t been in touch yet and now I’m convinced she’s going to sack me when she gets home. I can’t afford to be jobless.’

  Ben stuffs a tissue into my face and tries to wipe my snot off his work shirt while making sympathetic noises.

  ‘Jas, you went on a date in your own time. That’s not a sackable offence, okay? Violet’s behaving like a maniac. It’s bad enough that she treats you like her personal butler as well as her photographer, but to have a go at you for taking some time off? That’s completely unprofessional.’

  ‘I know but. . .’ I stutter.

  ‘But nothing. She’ll get back in touch, you just wait. And she’d better have a bloody good apology ready when she does.’

  ‘BUT WHAT IF SHE DOESN’T?’ I’m aware that I sound a bit hysterical right now, but the prospect of losing my (mediocre) income is terrifying. Ben thinks about this while I work my way through half a box of tissues.

  ‘Then you’ll be fine. You’re a great photographer, Jas. You’re bound to find work.’

  ‘Ben, it took me forever to find this job with Violet. I’d almost given up hope, remember? No one wanted to take me on with no qualifications. . .’ I’d carry on but I’m swamped in the memories of why I didn’t go to New York to study photography. Why I jacked in my place to stay at home and pick up the pieces around my mum. I’m properly crying now, fears about my job intermingled with the most painful memories from my past.

  ‘Hey, come on,’ Ben says softly, pulling me back up and steering me towards his giant, American-style fridge. I perk up the tiniest bit. Maybe there’s the beginnings of a tasty meal in there? He cranks open the door to reveal nothing but shelf upon shelf of alcohol. Unless you count the out of date lump of cheddar cheese on the top, which I most certainly do not. Who owns a piece of cheddar for long enough that it goes out of date? My best friend Ben, that’s who. He probably keeps his box fresh trainers in the oven too, such is the amount of use his kitchen gets. Ben’s an advertising exec which means he can afford to eat out for every meal and suggest bottomless brunches on the weekly. He owns a snazzy garden flat with a spare bedroom and has a Soho House membership.

  ‘Drink?’ he asks.

  I plumped for a bottle of rosé and proceeded to drink the majority of it while lying on my back in Ben’s living room. It feels quite nice down here, like having a different perspective not just on Ben’s flat, but on life in general. Or maybe that’s the rosé talking?

  Meanwhile Ben is doing a sterling job at perking me up and, hang on a minute, I realise it might sound a bit like we’re having sex right now. We categorically are not doing that. Vom. I can remember Ben serenading girls with guitar ditties at school. I can remember Ben sicking all down himself after a rugby tour. I can remember Ben wiping the snot from my face after the whole Dad shit storm and, apparently, he still has to do that to this day. He was and always will be my bestest boy friend.

  Right now, he’s reminded me of a little old thing they call the internet and is asking why the eff I still haven’t got my own website. It’s exactly what Al and I were talking about the other day. Al.

  ‘I know you’re busy with Violet but, mate, just look at you recently. You have found the time to do more stuff, right?’

  ‘That’s true. Though the dates haven’t been a roaring success. Too Much Thierry went from cute to sex pest, Pie with The IT Guy was completely spark-free and Alessandro Al Fresco was really lovely until we made the papers, my boss accused me of stealing her limelight and I got sent home from work. I’m almost half way through Mila’s challenge and feel like I’m getting nowhere.’

  ‘Sod the dates,’ Ben says dismissively. ‘I’m not talking about that shit. I’m talking about your photography, kiddo. You’ve been working on your own portfolio so now you should be showing those pictures off.’

  ‘I’m not sure where to start, though?’

  ‘Why don’t we look through those photographs and put together an edit. Your absolute favourites. . . the ones you’d like to showcase on your website.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, cheering up. If anything will take my mind off impending poverty, it’s snuggling up next to Ben and looking through some pictures that I’m actually proud of.

  One hour later and I’m 89 per cent sozzled, 98 per cent happy, and 102 per cent crap at maths. Ben and I are getting properly excited about some of the pictures I’ve taken and, if I block out the whole date débâcle after my olive grove shots, I’ve got to say that I’m pleased with how they’ve turned out. I found some straws in Ben’s kitchen so we’re both lying on our backs, straws dipped into our glasses of booze so we don’t even have to get up for a drink.

  ‘A website then? A place for my photos alongside my own name?’

  ‘Bloody corking idea!’

  ‘Just one prob,’ I slur. ‘I am not good at the internet. Like, how do you make a website? Can you make me one, Ben, pretty please?’

  ‘No idea, mate. Maybe that guy can help?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘That hipster guy?’

  ‘Not that fool,’ I huff.

  ‘Thought he worked in IT?’

  ‘Yes, Arnie does app design and stuff,’ I say reluctantly. ‘And he also friend-zoned me before I had the chance to friend-zone him so it is all a bit awkward.’

  ‘BA HA HAAAA,’ he laughs, before noticing that my face is falling again. ‘He could be helpful with the set-up? You should give him a ring.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hey, sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. Listen, he was an idiot to friend-zone you.’

  Alright STOP. Collaborate and listen.

  Did Ben’s last sentence sound a bit. . . weird? The bit about Arnie being an idiot? Am I incredibly drunk right now? I try to suck up more wine but end up pushing the straw up my nose. Coughing furiously, I roll over to find Ben doing exactly the same. Our faces are just inches from each other’s. Have I absolutely lost my tiny mind or does this situation suddenly feel a bit. . . charged? I stare at my old pal Ben, with his blond hair, blue eyes and stubble. His whole handsome face is full of kindness, concern and something else, too. Is he thinking the same as me?

  Should we. . .?

  Me and Ben?

  Nah.

  Or maybe?

  We both leap up at the same time and the blood rushes to my head as I try to balance.

  ‘Right, goodnight then,’ Ben says.

  ‘Absolutely. Nighty night!’

  Nighty night?

  Then we do the world’s most cringe handshake, because obviously life could really do with being a bit more awkward right now, and lurch off in different directions.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mercifully, Ben had left for work by the time I woke up this morning. I burrowed under the duvet with a hangover and the vaguest memory of an uncomfortable scene last night. It’s all a bit blurry. On the plus side, Arnie of Pie with The IT Guy fame has messaged to say that he’d be happy to help me set up a website so at least something is going in the right direction. On the downside, it’s been twenty-three hours and thirty-two minutes (not that I’m counting) since I left Violet in Italy and I still haven’t heard from her. I’m bricking it. What if she sacks me? I’ve come back to mine to spend the morning searching for jobs in my field and absolutely all of them require some hot damn qualifications. I’m basically screwe
d. To make things worse, I’ve decided to kick myself when I’m down, padding over to the wonky bookshelf in the corner of my living room and pulling out a dusty old photography book. It’s the one Dad and I would pore over for inspiration for my art projects at school. Automatically, my fingers turn to the message he wrote written inside the front cover.

  ‘Reach for the stars, my snap happy girl.’

  Sadness sears through me and I snap the book shut, grateful for the distraction of my phone beeping right on cue. Please let it be Violet! Much better to have a job in photography working for a complete arse than no job at all, surely.

  Sorry I wasn’t around this morning, early meetings. You okay?

  Ben. My thumbs wiggle around as I try to think up a response.

  So. . . last night was a bit weird. He adds. Sorry. Hope I didn’t creep you out. Can we just put it down to being super drunk?

  Definitely SUPER DRUNK, I tap back, happy to knock whatever this is on the head. Don’t worry, you’re always creepy, it’s just your thing. I add a smiley face for good measure.

  Today is the first week day I’ve had nothing to do in forever. I’ve shampooed and conditioned my hair. I’ve saved all of my latest photos to hard drive and cleared two memory cards. I’ve eaten a bowl or two of Coco Pops. I’ve emptied my suitcase and put a wash on. I’m about to find out what daytime guff my TV has to offer when I spot my passport holder on the floor next to a pile of other travel crap. Phone charger, stolen Nutella pots, that kind of thing. I grab it, pull the folded-up piece of paper from inside and re-read ‘my type on paper’. Three dates in and I’m definitely no closer to finding The One. Maybe that article was a load of BS after all.