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

by Hannah Doyle

  I rub my head, trying to process what Mum is saying. ‘I think I need a minute.’

  Mum has worked wonders on turning my childhood bedroom into a pretty guest room slash study, but if you ask me those boyband posters really did add something to the décor. Now you can see the actual walls whereas when I was here, every inch of wallpaper was covered in posters from magazines.

  I close the door behind me and head over to the wooden desk, where Mum is now growing an aloe vera plant (‘great for the air!’) and keeps Tiger’s sewing machine. Without thinking, I gravitate towards the desk drawers and pull out a box. Taking it over to the bed, no longer resplendent with Spice Girls duvet set, I open up the lid. Inside are all the things I didn’t want to throw away when I was clearing out the room. I let my teenage diary fall open on a page written in pink gel pen.

  So Ben’s trying to make us have a Halloween party but me and Holly are like no way, we’re not thirteen anymore, and Mila doesn’t seem to mind either way. But then I got thinking about my outfit and actually I reckon Halloween could be hot and maybe I could do some smoky eye make-up with that amazing eye palette I got from Urban Decay for my birthday. Like, I could go as Nicole Ritchie and Holly could be Paris Hilton. So maybe it is a good idea plus BRAINSTORM Mila has a crush on whatshisface so we could totally invite him and get Mila to ask him out ohmygod it’s going to be soooooooooo good I LOVE HALLOWEEN!

  I’m chuckling at the memories as I rifle through the box. A troll with no hair on. Photographic evidence of that peroxide blonde era, never to be repeated. A picture that Ben took of me, Mila and Holly laughing our heads off on the school bus. A loo selfie before loo selfies became a thing. . . so basically a photo of some toilets, our legs and a huge amount of reflected flash in the mirror.

  Those were the days.

  But also, those weren’t the days.

  I lie back on the bed and think about the moment I found out everything. It was the start of the summer holidays, right after A levels, and I’d been in central London trying out some new tricks with my camera. I couldn’t wait to show Dad the results and burst through the door to find Mum pacing up and down our kitchen, looking fraught. Mum was never usually home before me. Dad was at there too, head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he kept saying.

  ‘Save it,’ Mum said through breaking voice. ‘Jasmine’s home now so you can explain yourself to her. Jazzy, I’ll be in the garden when you need me.’

  Dad looked up at me, his eyes red raw from crying. He sat me down. He got me a glass of orange juice. And then he told me everything. How he’d met someone else. How he had to leave us. How he still loved me and he still wanted to be a part of my life but he just wouldn’t be living at home anymore.

  Quite a lot of my friends had divorced parents and I remember thinking, this will be okay. I hated to see my Mum so sad and I was upset with Dad but I was only young and I didn’t really get it. I think I even said something unbelievably stupid like, ‘It’s fine. These things happen.’ Only that wasn’t the end of Dad’s story. And the worst part of it is that he didn’t have the guts to tell me the rest of it himself. He just gave me a hug, arranged to meet me that weekend, grabbed his suitcase from the hall and left. It was only when I went outside to find Mum, absentmindedly picking dead leaves from a plant by the back door, that I discovered the extent of what he’d done.

  I pick up another photo, this one of Holly and me collecting a joint prize at primary school. She’d been my oldest, bestest friend and after what happened, I’d folded up my memories of her and sealed them up in the DO NOT OPEN part of my brain. Only, talking about Holly more recently has made me feel less angry about the whole thing. And it dawns on me that maybe, just maybe, I can face what happened.

  Putting everything back in the box, including a receipt from my first trip to the Tate with Dad, I take a deep breath and head back downstairs. Mum is right. It’s time to move on.

  Right, shall we mother bluffing do this? I can be cool and collected. I can be calm and reasoned. I can handle the most life-changing moment of all time with strength and refinement. Can’t I? HELL YEAH I can!

  I take 271 deep breaths and push open the door to a cutesy café. I already know that Holly is sitting in the garden out back because she texted me a few minutes ago, because we have each other’s numbers now, because I lost my mind and suggested we meet up, because apparently I’m an adult and I’m moving on, because. . . BALLS. Where was I? I think I might be freaking out. Just knowing that she’s in the same space as I am after all this time has me on edge. I use my hand to steady myself against a chair and push on towards the counter, where I order a cappuccino and take another million deep breaths.

  My hot drink is handed to me in a saucer with a spoon, which I immediately pass back to the lady behind the bar just in case I try to use it as a weapon in a moment of blind rage. I’ve actively arranged to meet the women who ripped apart my entire family all the while professing to be my best friend. This situation has the teeny tiny potential to go badly.

  Cappuccino Crisis: Photographer jams former best friend’s head into coffee grinder over family spat.

  No stop it.

  ‘Be strong,’ I whisper to myself as I take my spoon-free coffee, push open the back door and step out into the sunshine.

  Holly’s crying. She’s crying before I even get to her table and she’s sobbing by the time I tuck my new skirt under my legs and take a seat. She shakes her head and picks up her glass of juice then sets it straight back down again. She stands up and sits again. She changes her mind, leaps up and is round to my side of the picnic bench, folding her arms around me as I feel myself sag into her.

  ‘Jazzy,’ she pulls back, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Though I’m definitely not crying you guys. I’m being ultra-cool and calm like I told myself I would.

  I look down at her through heavy lashes. Her own tears pool at the base of those sea green eyes I haven’t seen for so long.

  ‘I’d forgotten how short you are,’ I say with a half-smile. On reflection, it wasn’t the first thing I’d expected to say to Holly after all this time.

  ‘Sparrow,’ she says.

  ‘Do you remember. . .’ I start before catching myself. I was about to reminisce about what we were doing the first time we gave her that nickname. We’d been on a school trip to a bird sanctuary and Mila had pretended that her 7Up was vodka, which we drank on the coach and pretended to be roaring drunk when we got there. We spent the funniest day trying to hide our ‘guilty secret’ from the teachers.

  ‘That school trip?’ Holly’s saying gently. ‘I became sparrow thanks to my tiny legs, you were a heron because you’re so tall and Mila was an owl because that neck of hers was always swivelling.’ She lets out a forlorn laugh.

  ‘Nothing’s changed. She’s still unbelievably nosy. She’s practically taken charge of my love life because she didn’t think I was getting it right. . .’ I stop when I catch Holly’s reaction. She looks impossibly sad.

  ‘I’ve missed you both so much,’ her voice breaks over the last two words.

  If I thought I’d bring the fire to this conversation I was drastically wrong. I’m completely overwhelmed by the strangest sensation right now. I miss Holly too. And I actually feel her pain. So much so that I almost want to make it better.

  I sniff loudly in the hope that it will stop me from crying, and take a sip of coffee.

  ‘I need to explain myself, if you can bear it?’ Holly says.

  Can I bear it? I’ve picked up small snippets of information about her life, like I know that Holly is a mum of two and she lives in south London now, but the whole sorry tale is a vast pit of sadness. I take a deep breath and say, ‘You were my best friend, Holly. How could you do that to us?’

  ‘Please believe me when I tell you that I didn’t set out with any intentions. Far from it. Both me and your dad tried to deny our feelings for a long time.’

  I can’t even look at her while she’s saying this. T
he thought is just too grim, even now. But Holly presses on. She tells me how she’d felt something for my dad ever since he took us all camping when we were 17. Dad had denied his feelings for a whole year but according to Holly she knew, and he knew, that there was something there. He tried to steer clear. He’d be out whenever he knew she was coming round. Holly felt awful, confused, alone. She had no one to talk to about it.

  ‘Do you remember your eighteenth birthday?’ she’s asking. I snap my eyes shut, not wanting to see or hear what comes next. I’d had Holly, Ben and Mila round to mine along with a bunch of other friends. Mum and Dad had gone all out. Mum arranged for a fish and chip van to park outside the house and a bar area on the patio served cocktails. Dad put a gazebo up in the garden and made everywhere look so nice. An older friend of Ben’s came to do some DJing, which we all thought was the coolest thing everrrr because he was already at uni. Mum needed to work away that weekend, I remember now, and she was so gutted to miss my party. We’d gone out for dinner at our favourite Italian on my actual birthday, and I’d made a case for Dad staying away on the night of my party too. ‘I’m eighteen now, like, a proper adult? And my friends and I are all, like, soooooo responsible.’ LOL. Mum insisted that at least one official grown up was there to shepherd our teenage behaviour, so Dad stuck around to stop Ben from trying to create a jacuzzi out of washing up liquid in our family bathroom, and Mila from taking things way too far with a boy who kept getting expelled from sixth form.

  ‘That’s when we spoke about our feelings for the first time,’ Holly is saying. ‘Most people had crashed in sleeping bags in the garden, Ben had locked himself in the bathroom with a bottle of Fairy Liquid and Mila was upstairs madly professing her undying love for “a kid from the wrong side of the tracks”. I went downstairs to get a glass of water and found your dad at the kitchen table. We talked. He felt the same but he hated himself for admitting it. I remember us both just sitting there, sad and silent. We knew it was wrong. . .’

  ‘So why didn’t you just leave it, Holly?’

  ‘I couldn’t! I loved him.’

  ‘Please,’ I shake my head. ‘You’d only just turned eighteen yourself! You didn’t know what love is.’

  She holds her hands up, not wanting to make me any more upset. ‘But I did,’ she whispers. ‘I still love him now, with everything I have. My heart beats for him. We knew how much hurt we were causing and I can’t tell you enough how absolutely awful it made us feel, but there wasn’t a thing on earth that could have been more awful than living a lie. We needed each other.’

  My head is all over the place. On the one hand I want to reach out and give Holly a squeeze and on the other that coffee grinder option is getting more appealing by the minute. The worst is, I know there’s more to come and my heart sinks further at the thought of it.

  ‘You got pregnant,’ I say.

  ‘I know. It wasn’t part of the plan. . .’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I think I’ve snapped. ‘There was a plan? Urgh. The thought of you and my dad sitting there plotting your escape is just awful. Awful.’

  ‘I don’t mean like that,’ Holly replies.

  ‘So how was it, then? Because from what I can gather, you and my dad were sneaking around while Dad planned how to ditch my mum.’

  ‘No, no,’ Holly shakes her head again. ‘Paul knew that he was going to leave your mum. This wasn’t just some silly fling, Jazzy. But he wanted to wait until you went off to America, he was so so proud of you for getting that place at the photography academy and he didn’t want to rock the boat before then.’

  ‘Hang on, let me get this straight, Dad’s plan was to leave my mum right after her only child had left the country for university?’

  Holly looks at me like she’s hearing it for the first time.

  ‘I know it doesn’t sound great, but he wanted what was best for you,’ she eventually says.

  ‘Fucking hell. And then what happened?’

  Holly takes a deep breath. ‘The pregnancy was a complete accident. That’s when Paul decided that we’d have to move faster. He wanted to support me and that meant living together so he told your mum earlier than planned.’

  ‘What a fucking shambles,’ I say.

  Holly gives me a sorrowful smile.

  ‘That’s exactly what my mum said when we told her. She refused to accept that her daughter was eighteen and knocked up. . .’ Holly looks up at me, her eyes red raw. Another wave of pity washes over me and I want to punch it in the face. Stupid wave.

  ‘She must be so in love with her grandchildren now, though.’

  Holly sighs. ‘Mum and Dad haven’t spoken to me since that day. They haven’t met Everly or Willow. They wouldn’t return my calls or write back to my letters. They forwarded every single picture of the girls back to me, unopened. I’ve had to stop trying for my own sake.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. Holly’s taking a shaky sip of her drink. She’s lost so much from her life because of one decision and, no matter how lonely she’s been without her parents and her best friends, it’s painfully obvious that she has not regretted that decision for one single moment.

  We’re on our third coffee as Holly scrolls through her photos, stopping each time she finds a favourite. There’s no denying that Everly and Willow are beautiful little girls. I’ve learned that Everly is strong, wilful and full of life, while Willow is calm, clever and thoughtful. They sound like legends, I think, my head still throbbing from this morning’s chat.

  ‘Everly looks just like Dad,’ I say, zooming in on one photo.

  ‘She’s arty too, like you and Paul.’

  My half-sisters. They’re actual people.

  ‘Do you want to meet them?’ Holly suggests, ever so softly.

  I’m so confused. On the one hand, I want nothing more than to hang out with these gorgeous little girls, or to properly reconnect with Holly, or even to give my dad a hug for the first time in years. I can actually feel my mouth ready to reply with a ‘yes’. But on the other hand, I just can’t. Not yet.

  My head was pounding as I made my way home from coffee with Holly and I needed distractions, fast. Back in the day, that would have involved a lil’ trip round to Hot Tom’s but alas, he’s been kicked to the kerb. These days, there is always work to be done so I got home, pulled on my hot pink house leggings and occupied my mind with everything but family dramas.

  Brand new Jasmine-only calendar set up. Self-employed status officially registered with Her Majesty’s tax pals. (Absolute barf). Flights to Dublin booked. Inbox sorted. Email sent accepting another shoot when I get back. Two celebratory tubs of fancy ice cream bought. It’s offish, I am no longer my own side project. I’m my main squeeze. Jasmine Hepworth Freelance Photographer IS GO!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I’m on a plane with approx zero room for my feet and the kind of hand luggage allowance that would only be okay for a troupe of travelling mice, though even they would have to sacrifice their largest chunks of cheese. I just paid a week’s worth of rent for a small bottle of water (might be exaggerating there) and the guy next to me is chowing down on a ham and cheese panini, so we all know that soon I’ll be ordering one too for £167. It’s not like I already ate a full English at the airport or anything *blushing face emoji*. In my defence, I got to Luton with hours to spare because I’m INCREDIBLY EXCITED about this trip. Travelling with Violet generally involved fancy airlines, business lounges, free drinks and all the legroom. Travelling for myself apparently involves not much personal space, using my suitcase as a chair because hi hello someone decided to travel in the middle of summer holiday season, and extortionately overpriced yet awful drinks. And guess what? IT’S THE BEST!

  Dublin, you stone cold stunner, stop flirting with me. I can’t handle it! Musicians line the cobbled streets, bashing out jaunty ditties that turn my walk into a skip every time I hear a new beat. Quaint shops and pubs jostle for space and all the tea shops are making me wonder if I should develop a thin
g for tea.

  I check my map and round one last corner, pulling up outside Byrne + O’Neill. Pushing open the glass door, I walk over to reception and take a deep breath.

  ‘Hi, I’m here to see Frazer. . . I’m Jasmine Hepworth, the photographer.’ Tingling all over. That felt good to say.

  ‘Good morning! I’ll let Frazer know, please grab a seat,’ says the receptionist in her lovely Irish lilt.

  I perch on a comfy leather sofa and pretend to flick through a magazine until I hear my name called out again.

  ‘Jasmine, good to meet you.’ Frazer is striding over to me. Dazzling smile, olive skin and statuesque frame. Smiling green eyes. I let myself smile too, both back at Frazer and at myself. He is exactly, one hundred per cent, no messing around, my old type on paper. The kind of boy who would have had my heart pumping and my mind racing just a few months ago. I stand up to greet him, holding out my hand and maintaining eye contact.

  ‘Great to meet you too,’ I reply. ‘Shall we get to work?’

  Dolly Parton’s ‘Nine to Five’ is on repeat in my head and I’m a) feeling so sassy right now and b) contemplating a huge beehive perm. Don’t think I can pull it off? In front of me stands the talent: a beautiful bird-like woman called Erin who is set for Big Things. Frazer must have said those exact words to me twenty times already. We had several phone conversations ahead of this trip where he told me all about the shoots and what he was hoping for. Now that I’m here I can see why he has faith in Erin. She’s an actress and, at twenty, she’s already had roles in a TV adaptation and a movie. I mean. She’s got the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen and she looks gorgeous in every single photo I take. My job is to capture some shots of Erin going about her everyday life. Over the next few days we’ll be holing up in the café where she reads potential manuscripts, going to university where she’s still studying English Literature and, the shoot I’m most excited for, having Sunday lunch with her family.