Hatred. Hidden. Page 3

‘No, no, no, no!’ Lucy shrieked as she clambered off the bed, grabbing Mark’s shirt and darting down the stairs.

  ‘What’s up?’ Mark ran after her.

  ‘The bloody chicken.’

  The acrid smell of burnt poultry seemed to confirm her doubts. The chicken was charred and black and ruined. Lucy ran her hands through her already dishevelled hair. ‘Bloody hell! It’s a disaster.’

  Mark clutched her hand and kissed her forehead. ‘Hey, don’t worry. We’ll just order take out. What will Humphrey want?’

  ‘You know he hates it when you call him that.’

  ‘He knows I’m only joking.’

  ‘I never get it.’

  ‘He looks like a young Humphrey Bogart. We should totally enter him into competitions. A right good lookalike.’

  ‘He’s only nine! I am not turning our son into one of those glammed up, bratty kids. And I’m definitely not becoming a pageant mum.’

  ‘You’d totally kick their arses. You could pull out their fake eyelashes and rip off the ridiculous hair extensions. In fact all you’d need to do is show them a mirror and they’d melt! The reflection of those I’ve-got-a-liver-condition fake tans would be like the Medusa effect.’

  Lucy smirked. ‘I thought Medusa turned people into stone. I think you’re confusing mythology with the Wicked Witch of the West.’

  Mark shrugged.

  ‘Anyway, Colby’s staying over with a friend tonight.’ She grumbled loudly into his chest and mocked a fake sob. ‘The poor chicken.’

  ‘Well that settles it. Let’s get our glad rags on. I’m taking you out!’

  Lucy wiped her chestnut hair from out her eyes and shook with anticipation. She ran back upstairs, taking two steps at a time, as giddy as a schoolgirl. Mark laughed to himself before shaking his head at the chicken.

  ‘Sorry, girl. Looks like you missed out tonight.’ He covered the charred thing with a damp tea towel.