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

by Hannah Doyle

  She bats his hands away. She gives him a look which would categorically kill a small animal. And then in a loud, clear voice which cuts across the background noise, she says many, many brutal things about his lack of abilities in the bedroom. The entire red carpet goes quiet. Even Chip looks ruffled. I have a hunch that #ChipsTinyChopper and #BooThatsNotHowYouDoIt will be trending within minutes.

  Even a wet tissue couldn’t fix the mascara river running down Violet’s face so I sent an emergency text to her make-up artist, who has mercifully appeared and is saving the day one brush stroke at a time. We’re all gathered in the plush toilets, Violet perched on a velvet chair while Emmy and I try to cheer her up.

  ‘Why is Chip here? He’s not even an influencer. And who the heck is she?’ Violet fumes.

  ‘There are loads of celebs here tonight, babes,’ says Emmy.

  She gets a look.

  ‘He’s not a celebrity. He’s a stupid fool.’

  ‘Yes he is,’ I agree. ‘But please don’t let him ruin your night? What he did was bang out of order and he’s not worth your tears.’

  ‘I shouted at him in public! It’s going to be everywhere. What was I thinking? Why didn’t you stop me?’ She’s looking accusingly at me.

  ‘I did try.’

  ‘You should have tried harder. Now I’m going to look like such an idiot. Even if I win it won’t take away from what happened.’

  I shake my head. ‘You won’t look like an idiot. I actually thought you dealt with it quite well. I was terrified that you were going to knock him out.’

  ‘Me too,’ agrees Emmy. ‘Everyone saw what he did to you on the show and they will all be rooting for you. Did you know there’s a Twitter account called @ChipIsADick? It’s about time he had his come-uppance.’

  Violet sniffs and raises her sad eyes.

  ‘Do you really think?’

  ‘Really, really,’ replies Emmy, passing her phone to Violet so she can laugh at @ChipIsADick. Violet giggles at the memes before her face crumples again.

  ‘It’s trending,’ she wails.

  ‘What is?’ Asks Emmy.

  ‘Hashtag Chip’s tiny chopper.’

  ‘It’s quite funny when you think about it,’ I say, noticing the hint of a smile creeping back to her face. ‘And look, you’re already getting tonnes of comments on Instagram about your outfit.’

  She watches the Stories I’ve posted: her stepping out of the cab, a boomerang of her waving to fans, a full-length of her dress with the bank of photographers standing in front of her. The suggestion of a smile gets bigger. ‘I do look good,’ she says quietly as she scrolls through the comments of the red carpet picture I added to her grid.

  Then BOOM, her face falls. Her brows cross. And her hands ball into a fist.

  ‘What the FUCK, Jasmine?’ she shouts.

  I literally cannot think of what might have gone wrong.

  I open my mouth to say something but Violet has already started shouting.

  Guys, I tagged the wrong designer for her dress. Which didn’t seem like a catastrophic mistake to silly old me. I was all, ‘No worries, I can delete the tag and add in the right one! It’s not a problem really.’ Violet’s reaction is painting a different picture. Apparently it is the massivest, problem-iest most problematic problem in the Kingdom of Problems.

  Throwing her hands up to the air and looking at the heavens, Violet is telling us how long and hard she’d been grafting to get on the good side of a PR who works with loads of designer brands. There had been emails and lunches and even a delivery of flowers. (Violet’s idea of grafting is wildly different to ours, btw). Mission finally complete, tonight she’s wearing the first dress of what she hopes is many to be unlocked by this heavenly PR creature, not to mention brand collaborations etc etc. Only now I have royally cocked it up which means Violet might have to kiss goodbye to a whole load of great stuff / a giant wad of money. I wait for her to stop balling me out and apologise for getting it wrong, replying as calmly as I can that I will rectify the situation. ‘Would you like me to get in touch with her too and explain what went wrong? The photo has only been up for a matter of minutes so she may not even know about the slip up.’

  Emmy’s got my back and the MUA is agreeing too.

  But Violet’s head is so huge that she can’t conceive of a world in which someone may not be hanging onto their phone, just praying for the very second that she uploads some new content.

  There’s a huge cloud hanging over us and all we can hear is Violet huffing and puffing. I grab the phone and quickly edit the tag, noticing that my palms are mysteriously not sweaty right now. Usually when Violet goes tonto over something work related, my stomach falls a thousand feet and my palms start to sweat. I absolutely hate feeling like I’m in her bad books. But tonight I feel okay.

  The lights in the ceremony are dim and the stage is back-lit with a large screen, flashing up the nominees and winners of each category. Chandeliers dangle above each table of guests, who sip expensive wine and eat beautifully presented plates of haute cuisine. Violet and her huge meringue dress are settled in next to Emmy and every now and then, the camera pans to them as they chat together over their meal. Vi’s MUA did the best job ever. . . no trace of crying eyes or terrifying rage are left on Violet’s face now. Another winner is announced and a young guy with a baseball cap on the wrong way bounds up to the stage.

  It’s a smidge less glam from where I’m standing, which sums up the difference between Violet’s life and mine. I’ve got a warm ham sandwich in my hand and the sneaking suspicion that someone else in here already fished the ham out of it. Animals.

  I’m in the press room watching events unfold from a TV screen in the corner. Journalists clutching dictaphones run from one award winner to the next as they are walked through the brightly lit room, while photographers snap each winner in front of the ceremony’s sponsor board. Chargers and laptop wires trail along the floor and the whole place smells a bit fusty. A tray of picked over sandwiches sits next to some luke-warm water bottles. It’s a million miles from the swanky set-up in the ceremony room.

  Emmy’s name is announced in the press room and in she walks, her Vlogger of The Year trophy aloft. When her pictures are done she slinks over to me and I squeeze her hand.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say. ‘You totally deserved it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she grins, her sea green dress shimmering in the bright light. ‘My mum is going to be so proud! That reminds me, Violet’s asked if you could go in and join her? My seat will be free for the next ten minutes or so while I call Mum and tell her the good news. Vi wants some pictures of herself before her name is announced.’

  I give Emmy one last squeeze and grab my stuff. Violet has such supreme confidence in her own abilities that, in her head, she’s already won the biggest award of the night. She might be a prime knob sometimes but I have to hand it to her, her self-belief is off the hook.

  ‘And the winner of Influencer of the Year goes to. . .’

  The wait is unbearable. I’m sat in Emmy’s seat and Violet hasn’t taken a breath since the compère uttered those last words. If he doesn’t hurry up I’m worried she’s going to pass out.

  ‘Violet Huntington!’

  A cheer erupts around the room and Violet stands, blowing kisses to the crowd. Then she whispers in my direction, ‘Straighten my dress.’ I grit my teeth, annoyed with Violet for treating me like a dogsbody again and with myself for letting it happen. But after the Chip incident and my dress designer fudge-up, I just want to get through tonight without any more glitches.

  Arranging the acres of pink froth, I look up to Violet for approval and she gives me a nod. She glides past Chip’s table, some may say deliberately letting her dress trail over his new girlfriend’s feet. And when she gets to her podium, award in hand, she gives an Oscar-worthy speech. It’s funny, succinct and oozing in charm, the kind of thing her fans will go wild for. I clap along with everyone as she takes a bow and then finally allow my
self a trip to the loo before racing back to the media room to catch Violet’s moment with the press.

  ‘The problem is, you just can’t get the staff these days. Tagging the wrong designer in my Instagram pictures this evening was a huge mistake and I’m worried that it’s undone hours of hard work on my part. Between you and me, it’s just the last in a long line of mistakes. There was the whole paparazzi débâcle in Italy. That was my reality TV début and she went off on a date with Alessandro, one of the new stars of the show? That’s what first had me worried that she has ideas above her station. Apparently when his agent Karen heard that he was going on a date with Jasmine, she tipped off a local press agency. She thought the idea that a basic girl could find her happy ever after with an actual prince was a golden opportunity to get his name in the UK press ahead of the series airing. I didn’t tell Jasmine when I found out because I didn’t want to upset her and for it to affect her work ethic even more. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s not bad. She takes quite a good photo for a girl with no formal training. But the other stuff? Do you know, she doesn’t even offer to clean up Prince Albie’s poop these days!’

  I’m stood stock still, inches behind Violet as she trots out this vile monologue to a journalist I was sharing a ham-less sarnie with not so long ago. I’m so cross that I can’t even see.

  The journalist spots me first and scurries off.

  Violet turns to me. If she’s wondering whether I heard what she just said, she’s doing a sterling job of pretending not to be. Some words pour out of her mouth. . . can I take some more behind the scene shots / check that her dress still crease-free. Blah. Bloody. Blah. Suddenly everything becomes clear and my boiling blood cools to a simmer. I hold my index finger up to silence her.

  ‘No.’

  Violet looks around the room. People don’t say no to her. Her left eye starts to twitch.

  ‘No, as in, you think there’s somewhere better for our shots?’

  ‘No, as in, I think there’s somewhere better for me,’ I say calmly. ‘I heard every single world of that nasty conversation you just had. Belittling me in front of a journalist? Gossiping about my date with Alessandro? Here’s a newsflash, Violet, I’m your photographer. That’s my job description. And yet you repeatedly expect me to run around after you, clearing up your mess, doing menial tasks along the way. Not to mention taking my ideas and passing them off as your own, or relying on me to keep your blog running even when I’m taking time off. None of that is in my contract and I’m neither paid well enough, nor treated with enough respect, to do them. I’m hard-working, I’m committed, I take good photographs for you and I never, ever get any credit for my work. On top of all of that, I’ve had your back. Emmy and I tried our hardest to protect you from Chip and his shit-stick moves earlier. I’ve been working since the break of day, just managed a five second break to have a speed-wee. And what’s my thanks? I come back to hear you criticising me in the press room. It is unbelievably unprofessional of you and I’ve had enough. I have no clue what’s around the corner for me, but I’ll happily spend the rest of my life in my crap flat, eating beans on freezer toast if it means I don’t have to deal with you. Ever again. Please accept this as notice of my resignation. You can stick your job up your perfectly bronzed arse because I am no longer your bitch.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sometimes I feel like I’m the mum in my relationship with my mama, which is ironic because I’m not responsible enough to parent a pet the rest of the time. Pretty sure I’d even be rubbish with goldfish. But when it comes to Mum and me, the days of getting a bollocking for staying out late, or taking too long to thank Auntie Elsie for the hand-knitted socks she sends at Christmas are long gone. Now there’s been a role reversal. I’ll ask Mum to text me when she gets home just so I know she’s safe. I cook dinner for her and Tiger once a month so I can catch up on their relationship. (He gets gold stars every time). And I had to try very hard not to tell her off for gawping at Hot Tom’s dick pics that time we went to the flower show.

  Today is no different.

  ‘Just go for it sweetheart! You’ll be fine!’ She says, pushing a bowl of home-grown strawberries across the legless kitchen table to me.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re being so blasé, Mum.’

  ‘Jazzy, it’s all in the past now. You have to let it go. You know, like that one from Frozen?’

  I bite the tip off a strawb and try not to huff. What is life when your own mother tells you to chill out and references Disney?

  ‘Maybe you’re just a bigger person than me.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with that. You are a wonderful, brave and loyal woman,’ she says, her face suddenly clouding over. ‘What happened with Holly cut you deep, understandably. But darling, just look at you now. You are on the cusp of wonderful things and I think you need to tie up some loose ends before you can truly move forward.’

  ‘Do you really? Think I’m on the cusp of good things, I mean? Because as far as I can see it, I just quit my job and I can only afford to live in London for another four days maximum on what I have left in the bank.’

  Nobody panic. Remember to breathe.

  ‘Ooh yeah, tell me exactly what happened,’ Mila chimes in. She was already hanging out with my mum when I arrived. She pops a strawberry in her own mouth while I wait for a wave of fear to subside. ‘Linda, you’ve excelled yourself with these, I take it you managed to deal with that aphid problem?’ Mum nods triumphantly and Mila looks very pleased for her. These two are so cute. ‘Did Vomit look like she was going to explode when you quit?’

  ‘I think she was genuinely shocked. She just stared at me with her mouth open and in the end I turned on my heels and ran. It probably wasn’t the most dignified, looking back, but I can’t tell you how good it felt. I ended up drinking negronis at a new bar near my flat and telling the bartender all about it. He was really sweet and gave me my drinks on the house, so obviously you and I need to go back there all the time. I slept like a baby that night and the weird thing was that when I woke up the next day, I wasn’t even panicking about what I’d done.’

  ‘That’s because it was the right decision,’ Mila nods sagely.

  ‘If I think about it too much I feel a bit sick, but I think you’re right. I’d put up with Violet’s bad behaviour for way too long and every time I thought things were improving, she’d turn back into a bloodsucking monster boss. But even though I feel like I’ve done the right thing, I can’t survive on good vibes alone, can I? How am I going to pay for all the fried chicken we eat as an unknown freelance photographer?’

  ‘You are a grafter, you’ll be just fine.’

  ‘It is scary AF. Though in good news I’ve just accepted a week’s worth of work in Dublin, and I’m so focused on turning my side hustle into my main job now.’

  Mum beams. ‘You have something lined up already? That’s fantastic!’

  I beam back, readjusting the cross of my legs and briefly wondering if Mum will ever put the legs back on her ruddy furniture. ‘I woke up after the awards ceremony with a guy called Frazer on my mind. He’d emailed me about the project – he wants some candid snaps of a new celebrity client of his – and I replied to say yes before I’d even got out of bed. It’s funny to think that I used to wake up with boys on my mind for a whole other reason. I’d wake up in a huge panic because WOOP I was seeing James later but PUKE I didn’t know if he’d approve of the restaurant I’d chosen or the outfit I was wearing. God, I was such a mug.’

  ’No you weren’t,’ says Mum. ‘You’d convinced yourself that you had to find the perfect man, and I understand why, Jazzy. I think that when your father left us for Holly, you got it stuck in your head that you would never, ever find a man of your own who could do something like that. You got so focused on potential boyfriends meeting your very strict criteria that you failed to see they weren’t even good eggs.’

  There. She said it. My dad left my mum for my eighteen-year-old best friend. Even now it stings t
o hear those words out loud. I roll a strawberry around on the table before stopping it with the tip of my finger, picking it up and eating it. Then I look up at Mum. Her grey hair is pinned back with a pretty clip and she has a slick of red lipstick on. She is beautiful. She is everything I want to be when I grow up. Strong. Independent. Proud. Fiercely loyal. Brave. An absolute joy to be around. She’s watching me, her eyes full of love and concern. There’s something else there too, an underlying happiness that is part of the fabric of her being now.

  She holds out her hand and takes mine in hers.

  ‘You know,’ she says. ‘I see your dad sometimes. They live not far from here and we often end up in the supermarket on a Friday together. He remains completely hapless at being able to choose food with a decent sell-by date on it. Last week I saw him putting some chicken into his trolley that was going off that very day! I had a rummage around on the shelf and found him something much more suitable.’

  ‘Mum, what the eff? You see Dad? Why didn’t you tell me? How do you manage not to kill him?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it because until very recently, you’ve shut down any attempt to discuss your father and I didn’t want to hurt you. But lately I’ve seen more of the old Jasmine. . . more strength, more confidence. And I’m convinced that now is the time. Besides, I haven’t killed him because it’s all in the past, darling. Your father is still, essentially, a good man. He didn’t mean to hurt us like he did. He followed his heart, that’s all.’

  ‘No. That’s NOT all, Mum. He ripped apart my friendship group and our family in one fell swoop. And now you’re helping him buy bloody chicken at the supermarket?’ My ears feel hot.

  ‘It was tough for us both, but for you in particular. You were strong when I couldn’t be, Jasmine. I will forever be grateful to you for that, you sacrificed so much to be by my side when I was reeling from the shock of his decision. I often think about your plans to study in America and I deeply regret that you didn’t go, but I understand why you did it. You know, I feel happier now than I think I would have if your father and I had stayed together. Tiger is just wonderful and I spend my days teaching yoga or pottering in the garden. I’d probably still be working at that marketing firm if things hadn’t changed with your dad. I honestly think that what happened was for the best in the long run. And look at you, my beautiful girl! You’ve set out on your own, you are doing amazing things with your photography in spite of the fact that you didn’t go to Bede Academy. I am unbelievably proud of you. And now it’s time to deal with what happened face on, so that you can truly move on.’