Dawn and Andrea would like to thank everyone who has helped them bring the Bunk-Up to fruition. Without the support of the betas and people who take time to promote us, our work would not reach readers hands.

You’re bloody marvellous and so not a twatfanny

xxx

Chapter One

Daisy

Every – day!

Every day, with exactly seven minutes until the end of my shift, did Mrs Haversham amble around the sectioned queue area. Her narrow, beady eyes fix onto me as my fingers stall mid-count.
Why me? Why does she always make a beeline for me?

I hear the wave of faint groans from my colleagues as they, one by one, spot her moving around the barrier.

There is just one person presently stood waiting to be served, and I quickly glance at my co-workers, checking to see who is already serving.

If I hurry with my current customer, I can grab the already waiting one, and then someone else will get Mrs Haversham!

As soon as the thought enters my head, the exact same idea pops into the heads of every single other worker. Every hand in my peripheral view starts to move with a speed that defies gravity, everyone spewing the routine spiel with a slur of blustering syllables.

“Sixty-seven pence change. Thank you for using the Post Office,” I reel off hastily to the woman stood at the other side of my Perspex window. “Have a nice day.”

She blinks at me then quickly nods, sensing my eagerness, and hurries away.

A grin lights my face when I speedily bang my palm onto my number call button.

“Window four,” the automated female voice sings out, my happiness singing in tune with her.

As soon as my number rings out, all the quickly moving hands slow to an almost stop, the previous fast-forward commotion now suddenly paused as everyone eagerly tries to out-slow their neighbour.

Kathy, my co-worker and best friend, glares at me with narrow eyes when I pump my fist in delight under the counter. “Bitch,” she hisses at me. I blow her a kiss and turn to watch my next customer hurry up to my booth.

I can’t help but grin like a loony at the man who thrusts his face into my vision. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you today?”

“First class stamp.”

What? No!

I fluster for a moment. “Uhh, can I offer you any other services, sir? The Post Office offers very competitive rates on house insurance…”

“No.”

I glance sideways, my foot tapping nervously as my colleagues continue to serve their current customers.

“Maybe I can offer you…”

“A stamp!” he growls at me. There’s something fierce in his eyes and I instinctively lean back a little. “Just – a – stamp!”

“Right.”

Biting into my lip, I slowly slide open my drawer. The stamps sit right at the top in their little designated section. I pick up a few leaflets, pretending to look underneath as I hear my customer huff angrily with my slow service.

“Was that first class or second, sir?” I ask without looking up.

“Hello, Daisy, dear.”

My eyes shoot up to the window, and Mrs Haversham’s toothless grin stares back at me. In shock, I shoot upright, my eyes scanning the vicinity. “Where did he go?”

“Who, dear?”

“The man. My last customer.”

Kathy sniggers as she turns off her cubicle light next to me and stretches languidly. “That’s me done. The weekend here I come.”

“Oh, he went that way.” Mrs Haversham points to Mary at the end of the line. Mary pokes her tongue at me as she slides a first class stamp across to my previous customer.

“He was mine!” I shout to Mary. “I owned him!”

The man, horrified, widens his eyes on me, then snatches up his stamp and hurries out of the front doors.

“I won’t keep you today, Daisy, dear,” Mrs Haversham croaks.

Defeated, my shoulders slump as I look back to her. I nod. I don’t believe her. Every day she says, ‘I won’t keep you today, dear.’ And every day she fibs, right to my face.

“I have a small parcel to send to my Nigel.”

I nod again, trying my best to smile. Here it comes.

“He’s in Australia. Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

“Married a girl. Such a pretty thing, she is. And plenty of money.” Her bright red lips purse as she nods. Her shocking crimson lipstick slithers into the lines that bleed from her lips, and I can’t hold back the shudder.

“My Nigel is such a catch. He’s big in the art world. Did I tell you that?”

“You did, yes.”

“He’s a fully trained accountant too. Did I…?”

“You did,” I drawl. “You have a parcel for me, Mrs Haversham?”

She stares at me for a long moment before she blinks. “Oh, yes.”

Reaching into her handbag, she pulls out a tiny box and pushes it under the window.

“He’s so handsome, my Nigel,” she continues.

“You need to pop the package onto the scales for me, Mrs Haversham.”

“He has all his own teeth,” she says with pride.

“That’s nice. The scales,” I almost beg as I push the parcel towards her.

One by one my colleagues switch off their lights and smirk at me as they pass me on their way to the staffroom. “Night, Daisy,” they laugh.

I dig my nails into the top of my thighs. “Mrs Haversham, the scales.”

“Oh, yes, dear. Sorry.”

Finally, she places the small box onto the scales.

“Five pounds forty-five, please,” I inform her when she passes me the box back.

Reaching into her bag slowly, she pulls out the largest purse in the history of… ever. Rattling through her coins she grins back up at me. “My Nigel’s making a sculpture, and needs me to contribute so it’s more personal.”

“That’s nice.” I am slowly losing the will to live.

She nods again as she slides a coin under the window slot. “He called me yesterday… from Australia!”

I nod as I spin the box in my fingers, waiting for her to count out the one hundred and nine five pence pieces.

“It’s for Kylie Minogue,” she declares.

“Wow. I’m sure she’s thrilled.”

“He’s such a good boy, my Nigel.”

I smile as my eyes roam to the clock on the wall.

“He’s making a replica of the Sydney Opera House.”

“Wow.”

She nods again, slipping another five pence through the gap. “Out of toenails and all!”

I throw the box. It bounces off the counter and lands in my lap. Squealing, I shoot up, the box dropping to the floor by my feet.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Uhh.” Horrified, I stare at the box and then to Mrs Haversham. “Spider?”

“Forty-eight clippings in there. You wouldn’t think so with the size would you?”

Oh
,
Christ.

Well, at least it’s Friday. Things can only get better.

***

Or so I thought...

Now, when I’ve read books and people find their boyfriend in their bed with the mistress, I thought it was fiction, because come on, who would be that stupid? Well, it would seem
my
boyfriend would.

I love that pasty white arse pumping up and down in front of my eyes - eyes that can’t believe what is on display in front of them. I can see tendrils of long red hair spread across my pillow, but the confirmation of it being Belinda, the receptionist from the local estate agents, is only confirmed when my boyfriend lets out a gasp of, “Oh yeah, baby.” His come cry before letting his head flop and rest at the pillow at the side of hers.

“She hasn’t come,” I say to the back of his head. Belinda’s gaze snaps to my own and then she screams. “I’m sorry. Am I inconveniencing you coming into my own bedroom?” I ask her. By this stage she and Marcus are pulling the duvet up around themselves. A bit late; I’d already seen enough to do a medical assessment.

“You’re really lucky you know?” I sit on the bed at the side of her, rummaging in my bedside drawer for one of the matches I use to light candles. “I’ll cry every time I look at one of these from now on.” I hold up a match. “These remind me of Marcus’s tiny penis. Watch.” I strike it against the match box and extinguish it with a quick breath. “One quick blow and he’s out.”

“Well, maybe you weren’t enough of a woman for him?” She fixes me with a green-eyed smug stare.

I light another match. “Yeah. Maybe I wasn’t hot enough.”

I drop the match on the end of the duvet. I know it’s already extinguished when it hits, but they don’t. They jump out, Belinda’s screech of,
‘You crazy bitch’
giving me a smug smile as Marcus stumbles to pull his trousers on.

The reality of the situation hits me finally. I refuse to allow them to witness my hurt. Neither of them deserve it, especially Marcus.

Yanking the strap of my bag higher up my shoulder, I swallow back the bile that is forcing its way upwards and slam the front door behind me.

Having a pub opposite your house has more good points than bad, especially when the need to get raging drunk hits.

BOOK: The Bunk Up (The Village People Book 1)

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