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

by Hannah Doyle

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘That bad?’ he asks, leading me into his living room.

  I texted Ben straight after the Interview of Nightmares and he practically ordered me to come round to his after work.

  ‘Not great.’

  ‘Well you’ve come to the right place. Let Uncle Ben look after you,’ he calls as he runs out of the room.

  ‘Uncle Ben. That’s what Mila’s kids will call you and then you’ll all laugh about it being like the rice and Auntie Jasmine won’t get a look in.’

  ‘MILA’S PREGNANT?’ shouts Ben from his bedroom.

  ‘No! I’m just saying that when she is—’

  Ben’s back and looking at the sad little pool of water that has collected at my feet.

  ‘This seems like a weird thing to be getting upset about right now. Do you want to talk to me about the interview?’ He hands me the exact same outfit I ended up in last time I came round here and I wonder if wearing Ben’s clothes is about to become my new thing. ‘Get out of those wet clothes and I’ll come back in five.’

  I’m ashamed to say that I give the top a little sniff when Ben leaves, because yes, he’s being very sweet but I don’t really want to be wearing one of his sports tops if he’s used it since my last wear. It smells lovely. Like fabric softener with a hint of aftershave.

  A loud cough, then: ‘Are you done? I made tea.’

  He pokes his head around the door and hands me the brew. I wrap my cool hands around the warm mug gratefully.

  ‘You didn’t get the job?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did they say why?’

  ‘Because I’m a failure at life?’

  ‘They did not say that you are a failure at life. Come on! What actually happened?’

  ‘I was so fired up because of the flamingos and then. . . Jade’s blue eyes. . . and she had such a white office I was too scared to breathe. . . And then I got the job. . . and then I lost the job because of qualifications. . .’ I’ve started to cry and I couldn’t be less pleased with myself right now.

  ‘Oh Jas,’ he says, pulling me in for a hug. ‘That’s tough. There’ll be other jobs though kid.’

  ‘Will there?’ I ask, sounding a bit nasal because of all the snot. ‘Because I’ve been working for Violet for years and this is the first thing that’s come my way.’

  ‘Have you actually applied for other jobs, then?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Well. . . no.’

  ‘And this gig with the knitwear brand came about because someone liked your work and approached you about it, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That in itself is pretty awesome, I think. It’s a bit like you were head-hunted.’

  I smile at big, bearish Ben through watery eyes.

  ‘It’s sweet of you for trying to cheer me up.’

  ‘I’m just pointing out the facts,’ Ben replies, gulping down his tea. ‘And if I was trying to cheer you up, I’d probably tell you that another offer will come along soon, but I actually don’t think it will.’

  I stare up at him, a little dribble of tea still trickling down my chin.

  ‘Wow, thanks. Am I doomed to work as Violet’s unnamed photographer for the rest of my days?’

  ‘Not if you start creating your own opportunities.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Mate, I’m not the photographer and I don’t know shit about photography, but you’ve made a great start already. Your website? It’s awesome. You just need to take it to the next level. Start getting out there! If you want a new job, why don’t you go out and get it?’

  ‘I can’t suddenly magic some qualifications out of thin air, Ben,’ I grumble.

  ‘So you’ll have to prove yourself in what you can do. Let the photos speak for themselves! And what about getting some more experience? You’ve said yourself that you do the same thing, day in and day out, with Violet. Are there any photographers you could shadow for a couple of days?’

  That’s actually a really good idea.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply, starting to feel a bit better about things.

  ‘Maybe Arnold could help out with SEO, too, just to make sure you’re being seen by the right people,’ Ben’s getting more enthused by the minute.

  ‘It’s Arnie,’ I reply.

  Ben rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever. That idiot.’

  ‘He’s not an idiot. He’s actually really nice and he’s been very helpful.’

  Ben grabs my empty mug and our fingers briefly touch, causing me to pull my hand away in surprise. He makes a low growling sound, looks absolutely horrified with himself and rushes out of the room, leaving me feeling super weird AGAIN.

  What’s happening here? Ben’s had my back since forever and it’s not unusual for him to stick up for me. But this is the second time he’s got all huffy about my friendship with Arnie. I’m probably just overthinking things right now. You know, all over-sensitive because every time I seem to be taking a step forward, I feel like I’m knocked two steps back. Only one of my four recent dates has been actually good. Thank goodness for Real Talk with Ralph. Meanwhile Violet’s sweet one minute and crazy mean the next. A super cool new work opportunity gets snatched from under my feet. Shitting Holly. When I end up back in my flat after a day at work with no love life, no career prospects and yet another text about my overdraft facility, it’s tough not to feel a bit miffed. And yet here I am, cosied up at Ben’s and feeling loved.

  That last thought makes me splutter.

  Ben makes me feel loved?

  Ben makes me feel loved.

  He’s kind and considerate and he seems to have taken against any of the men I’ve dated recently. Suddenly I’m diving down a big fat rabbit hole. Has the love of my life been under my nose this whole time? You read about it in books, right? The girl with the crap love life who suddenly discovers that her perfect match is her best friend. Shitting hell.

  AM I THAT GIRL?

  No, you shut up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Good news all-round, the penis-shaped bruise on Photographer Dave’s forehead is long gone. In fact, Violet’s crazed attack seems to have been put in his past and he’s back to looking nonchalant. There are loads of other people at this warehouse too and I feel super nervous as I walk onto set. Everyone looks like they know what they’re doing and I don’t want to be the awkward new girl. So, you know, tripping over on the way past the receptionist was a really good start. She let out an audible sigh before going back to pick at her nail varnish.

  I scrape myself up and make my way over to Dave. His pin thin legs are still clad in skinny jeans (nope) and he leans against a trestle table, grimacing into a mug of coffee.

  ‘Jasmine, good to see you again.’

  ‘Thank you so much for this opportunity Dave. I really need to start expanding my CV. . . shadowing you will be so valuable.’

  ‘Yeah, well, my assistant Terry’s pissed off for a whole sodding month in Malaysia, so your call the other day was perfect timing. Shadowing’s probably not the right word though, love. You’ll be doing more than that! Shall we start?’

  More than shadowing! Does he mean he might let me behind the camera for a bit? Woot!

  I look around at the exposed brick walls and watch some guys deliberating how ‘unmade’ the bed in the middle of the room should look while Dave explains today’s shoot. We’re doing ‘autumn bedroom updates’ for a glossy interiors magazine, which is wonderful news because I was back at Mum’s updating my old bedroom not too long ago. Though I’m guessing that taking down teenage posters won’t cut it today.

  ‘Want me to start setting up the lighting?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. First I’m going to need a flat white from a proper coffee shop. No decaf. No soya milk. This instant tastes like horseshit and is doing nothing for my hangover.’

  Oh gawd. Have I stumbled into another nightmare boss situation? Dave hands me the offending cup and I remind myself that assisting a well-known photographer is a huge o
pportunity and one that might even help with, whisper it, career progression. Coffee run it is.

  Shoots with Violet last a couple of hours, max. She knows what she likes and, whatever her faults might be, she does tend to listen to direction. It means we’re in and out like lightning, giving us the rest of our day to edit the shots, tend to social media and scrabble around doing odd jobs (me) or meet up with friends, revel in her new celebrity status and prance about in designer clothes (Violet).

  Dave, on the other hand, is a slow burner. First of all, he and the picture director from this interiors mag had a stand-off about. . . the colour orange. True story. Poor old orange got a real hard time from Dave, who called it ‘gauche’ and some other words I don’t really understand, all the while moaning that the orange pillowcases looked ‘too abrasive’ in the photos he’d taken so far. The picture director heartily disagreed and the two guys were on the cusp of a very un-macho pillow fight with the offending soft furnishings until lunch arrived right on time.

  Then Dave started to complain that Fanta was not acceptable and he really only drank ‘San Pellegrino sparkling blood orange’. Diva Dave is starting to make Violet look like a sweet little angel boss.

  Still, Dave’s reputation precedes him and though I’d never, ever act like a prized knob-end if I was lucky enough to find his level of success, I am learning absolutely loads on the job. Just watching his process has given me lots of ideas for my own portfolio, and I’m jotting down tips and tricks whenever there’s a quiet moment. Which is often. Dave is currently taking a fag break slash the chance to chat up one of the magazine’s interns. Poor lamb. When we finally wrap, I’m knackered but buzzing with enthusiasm.

  ‘Thank you so much, today has been brilliant.’

  ‘No problem, you’ve been quite useful,’ replies the King of Compliments. ‘Shout me if you want to do it again.’

  ‘Do you mean that? Because I definitely will. If I have enough notice I can book a day off from work.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Dave asks.

  Going home. Taking my bra off. Eating a Whispa.

  ‘Oh, probably heading out, being piff. Doing something peng. Just another night, y’know?’ I say, swiftly wondering why the eff I decided to try out ALL of my new cool girl vocab on an arty photographer in one sentence.

  ‘Riiiiiight,’ Dave’s raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m only asking because the sun’s about to set. I’m going to stay here, head up onto the roof and see if it makes for some good photos. Want to join me?’

  ‘Yes I do!’ I squeal, losing any millimetre of cool I may have possessed two seconds ago. So, losing no millimetres of cool. ‘That sounds. . .’

  Do not say piff or peng.

  DO NOT SAY PIFF OR PENG.

  ‘. . .very jolly.’

  Hmm.

  ‘Sweet. I’ll take a couple of beers then, and why don’t you fetch yourself something too. My treat,’ Dave stuffs a £5 note in my hands. FIVE ENGLISH POUNDS. I look up at him, bewildered, because we both know that this solitary note won’t cover the price of a single beer around here. Also, since when did I remain his assistant now that we’ve clocked off? But as he’s already making his way to the outdoor staircase I stuff the cash in my pocket and shuffle off to the shops.

  Dave is attempting to set up a tripod when I reach the roof and I struggle to hide a smirk. Is this really what life as a big photographer is like? You’re so busy being fabulous and well-paid that you forget how to do the basics of your job?

  ‘Can you help me out?’

  I rest the bottles of beer down next to him and step back.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a go yourself,’ I say with sudden confidence. ‘Oh and by the way, I treated myself to a couple of gins in tins. That fiver you gave me covered one and a half of your four beers. And I’m pretty sure that your salary trumps mine by one million and ten per cent.’

  Trumps?

  Dave stops trying to fix the tripod into place, looks up at me and actively guffaws.

  ‘You make me laugh. Thank you for going to get the drinks. My wallet’s over there, please help yourself to whatever you need.’

  I’ve only been working with Dave for a day but this feels like a small win.

  ‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll shout you two point five beers. You’re doing that all wrong by the way.’ I kneel down next to him and jack the tripod into position. ‘There.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Go on then. . . what?’

  ‘Take some shots.’ He picks up a beer, flicks the bottle top off with his thumb and nods towards his camera.

  ‘Really? What happened to not letting your assistants touch your camera?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘They were your actual words when I asked if I could take some pictures earlier. Along with some other, more offensive words. Like “step the fuck away” and “get your sticky thumbprints off”.’ Full disclosure: My thumbs were sticky from the heat, but he didn’t have to point it out.

  ‘Oh yeah. Well, you did good today and I don’t usually get called out on underpaying for drinks by an assistant who I’m lending my time and substantial expertise to.’ Dave grins, placing heavy emphasis on the words substantial and expertise.

  Two beers down and Dave seems genuinely enthused as we stop to look at the pictures I’m taking, offering up bits of advice and encouragement. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I’m doing that my gins remain untouched, an almost unheard of feat in the History of Jasmine.

  ‘You were right,’ I say as Dave sets his bottle down, leaning back on his arms.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This sunset. It’s insane.’ I motion to the sun, now a tiny dot beaming out bright orange shards of light over the London skyline. If I look immediately up, the sky above my head is a swirl of indigos, purples and pinks.

  ‘This city never fails to impress.’

  ‘Have you shot here before? At this warehouse, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, quite a few times. It’s one of the favourites for magazines like this. Exposed brickwork, huge windows, blah blah,’ he reaches for beer number three.

  ‘You sound kind of bored.’

  Dave stares out at the city’s silhouetted landmarks. ‘Shoots like this and the one we did with that crazy boss of yours are my bread and butter. I do them because the pay is good and they keep me going between the big stuff.’

  ‘The fashion shoots?’

  ‘I definitely prefer them because there are models and models are hot, but my thing is taking portraits. Not famous people, just characters. People. Life. It sounds trite to say, but you can absolutely see into a person’s soul, just by looking at their face.’

  I find myself staring at Dave’s face. He’s got flecks of grey running through his dark hair and laughter lines around his eyes. At a guess I’d put him in his late thirties. He pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, shifting his body away from me as he turns to stare at the city. I grab my own camera from my bag and carefully, quietly, start taking pictures.

  ‘My next big project is a book,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s my baby. I’ve been taking portraits of people with interesting stories to tell for the past few months and it will be ready by the end of next year. I’m hoping to have an exhibition of the pieces around the time the book launches.’

  Wow. A book and an exhibition? Those are some serious photography aims, right there. Dave is looking reflective and softer than he was on set today, like he’s lost that self-conscious need to be ‘cool’ all the time. My finger clicks away until he looks back over his shoulder at me.

  ‘You got me thinking about portraits,’ I say sheepishly. ‘They’ll probably be shit.’

  He puts his hand to the lens to stop me taking more pictures.

  ‘I doubt it. You’ve got raw talent, Jasmine. You don’t need a piece of paper from an art college to tell you that. Talent like yours comes from within, it can’t be learned. The shots you took of the sunset are good. Not perfect, obviously, but
spend some more time with me and you’ll get even better.’

  ‘I will?’ I ask, blown away by his words.

  ‘You will. Want me to take your portrait?’

  ‘Me?’ I’m actually squeaking now. Famous photographer Dave has offered to take my picture. Holy shitballs, guys. He starts snapping but I’ve been seized by a case of the major cringe and I can feel my face twisting into awkward shapes.

  ‘Why d’you look so weird all of a sudden?’

  ‘Is this the way you talk to all your subjects?’

  ‘My subjects aren’t usually my assistants,’ he grins, setting his camera down. Relieved, I look back towards the disappearing sunset. The last time I watched the sun go down was with Mila and Ben ages ago. Ben had read something in a fitness mag about how great walking is for all-round health, so we packed into his car and drove up to the Lake District for a weekend of camping and hiking. On the first night we sat staring at the setting sun, clinking beer bottles and toasting marshmallows on a firepit. The memory makes me smile but my stomach also does that plummeting thing, like when you’re driving up and down a really hilly road.

  IT’S BEN! Shouts my brain.

  SHUT UP, BRAIN! I shout back. Then I take a sip of gin and turn to find Dave staring right into my eyeballs.

  ‘Argh!’

  ‘You’re probably thinking about trying to kiss me, aren’t you?’

  Needless to say that the gin comes spluttering right back out of my mouth.

  ‘Um, no?’

  ‘Are you sure? Most women think I’m hot.’

  I inch back a little. ‘Well I think you’ve got a really big head. Plus, you’ve had three beers and I’m your temporary assistant, so we should keep this professional. Not only because I want to work with you again and I’ve learned so much great stuff today, but also because you’re blatantly a big old shagger and you were chatting up an intern just a couple of hours ago.’

  Like water off a duck’s back, Dave shrugs his shoulders and looks at his camera kit.

  ‘Seeing as you’re so keen to keep this professional, you’d better start packing up my tripod,’ he laughs.

  Mila is pulling snacks from a seemingly bottomless shopping bag and pushing every packet into the middle of Mum’s kitchen table like she’s making a snack volcano.