Living Upside Down. John Hickman

glares at Edward. Her eyes catch and hold him, intimidating as hell.

      “You done bad, Edvard.”

      Edward sighs deeply. He realises the failure of his recent hotel ventures hardly herald a success story.

      He senses that Zelda is becoming a hovering black eagle observing him as the uneasy mouse.

      “You are a valking bill-board of zhe personal problems,” Zelda looks hard at Edward.

      Here we go, again, thinks Edward.

      “You came into mein life at a difficult time for me, Edvard.”

      “Yes, Sweetheart,” Edward sighs deeply, “I know. You’ve told me many times how hard you tried before your divorce, even allowing your now ex-husband to bring his motorbike into your house.”

      Edward’s sarcasm kicks in as part of his defence mechanism.

      “I’m sure your ex’s fan base meets with him every afternoon in a telephone booth down the road,” Edward continues.

      “And den you come along, Edvard, vhen ve met through zhe agency.”

      “I thought, we agreed, Zelda, not to mention the introduction agency. It sounds so much better if we get used to telling everyone how our doctor introduced us. Especially as we both had the same GP.”

      “Ja ja, fiddle faddle.”

      Edward primes his pipe and as he does so, he feels the anger of betrayal rise in him more than usual. “You chose divorce, Zelda. I did not choose my wife to pass away. Alice died in 1965 she was only 38. A sudden, terrible, cancer that took her in a matter of weeks. My situation was entirely different to yours.”

      “Mein Gott, Edvard. I know Alice vas a good vife und mudder. She was very lucky to have you survive de var as a Lancaster bomber pilot.”

      Zelda is right. Physically whole, Edward displays none of the horrific war trauma carried as shocking trophies by so many surviving RAF crews, but he still feels down.

      The relaxed ambience of their surroundings is doing nothing to make Edward feel better about his situation right now. The small but elegant crystal chandeliers, floating overhead like candlelit funeral shrouds, are supposed to cast a calming light, but he and Zelda are far from enjoying calm.

      Too late, about three years too late, Edward realises he is having doubts about his marriage to Zelda; she is a proven fine actress, he gives her that much, but a very dangerous woman to cross.

      According to her ex-husband, whom he has met with on occasions when releasing the girls for visits, she is a beautiful liar who her ex is pleased to be rid of.

      In her younger years, might she have been the scourge of many a middle-aged man?

      “Uh huh.” Edward agrees. “All I want is a little peace and quiet, Zelda.” He cast his eyes around their expansive drawing room, taking in the discreet wall lights illuminating the embossed, velour wallpapers in their rich burgundy colours. The expensive fabrics evoke a high style of sophistication while the deep pile carpets swallow their footfalls adding to the exclusive ambience. If he has to be miserable, he would rather be miserable in style.

      “Vhat rubbish you talk!”

      Edward loses his calm. “For Christ’s sake, Zelda, what part of fucking peace and quiet don’t you understand?”

      Zelda sulks.

      Edward cast a further glance towards their rattling front windows. Fierce rain lashes the glass turning any view into a muted shade of grey.

      Edward knows Alice loved him despite his attempts to get rich. Schemes that despite his dedication and hard work, never came good. Alice wanted him to work in a steady day job that paid regular money. In hindsight, she was right; Alice was always right. Edward eases away into his memories.

      The first thing Zelda noticed about Edward was his blue eyes, which she decided were pleasingly impish. A surviving bomber pilot and recent hotel owner, he was about as full of himself as any man could be.

      Edward is aware that to his wife from a council shit tip, she feels that she married up. As his German Boudicea, she would surely enjoy putting a chain around his neck — if only she could. Edward smiles at his thoughts; Then force feed me Italian spaghetti meat balls to maintain my strength.

      Zelda softens. “Vould you like a cup of tea, Edvard?”

      Edward nods. “Yes, thank you, Zelda, Sweetheart.”

      Zelda moves through their flat to locate Charlotte and stepdaughter June; as she goes she sets her Teutonic antennae onto dust or disturbance alarm.

      Good, she thinks.

      Now her Obsessive-compulsive disorder has kicked in and is operating at full pelt, all the rug fringes appear to be combed in to place, exactly how she likes each one to be. Fluff on the carpet unsettles her most.

      Best I get the girls to re-vacuum the entire carpets, tomorrow! she thinks.

      Paramount to Zelda is that Charlotte is alright and coping well with her homework. Not that she has any reason to suspect otherwise.

      She finds both girls playing quietly together in their shared bedroom. Running a severe gaze over both, she sees little sign of homework being done, which puts her in a darker mood than usual.

      “Vhat is dis? Vhy ist dere kein homevork done?”

      The girls express some rebellion. “We’ll do it later, before bed,” Charlotte giggles.

      “Be sure your homevork is done or de TV vill be verboten.”

      June stares back at the tall, bony woman her Dad chose to take the place of her Mum. If only she had the strength, she would strangle the life out of the cow. Instead, she beams her happiest smile and thinks her Dad is barking mad. Can he not see Zelda is part viper, part fairytale evil?

      ‘A cobra in high heels and lipstick,’ is how her brother Roger describes her. ‘Not unlike the witch out of Hansel and Gretel,’ Roger said. June has learned the hard way. Not every secret shared with Charlotte, stays between them.

      Zelda stares back at June, her dark eyes holding an indefinable measure of unfriendliness. She rummages for her soft pack of unfiltered Camel cigarettes and after finding her Ronson gas lighter, lights up. Her face a picture of displeasure as her exhaled smoke hovers in the air.

      June is seriously hoping that Zelda will spontaneously combust.

      “Your fadder vants a cup of his hot, sweet tea. You vill make it for him, June, and I vood love anudder coffee, just de vay I like it.”

      Turning on her high stiletto heels, Zelda struts back to join Edward.

      June has been a problem for Zelda since marrying Edward. The little bitch kept calling her ‘Thingy’ instead of Mum, Mother, or Zelda. She soon put paid to that nonsense by disciplining the wayward child in a number of imaginative ways, ways that appeared harmless if not examined too closely. She could not help but smile at her own creativeness; excluding June from the clothes buying process by getting Charlotte to try everything on worked a treat, as had giving her stepdaughter more chores, such as making her father’s tea now.

      Oh, how pedestrian is she now? thinks June.

      Zelda sinks back into her favourite luxury leather lounge chair. She breathes in the aroma of Edward’s pipe tobacco hovering in the air like miniature cumuli and considers other battles she has won; such as establishing herself within the family as ‘Nanny’ and not being called ‘Granny’. She gave an involuntary shudder at the thought, but at least that is behind her now.

      “June vants to make your tea, Edvard,” Zelda sighs her deepest sigh.

      Overheard by June, Oh, yes, she thinks, but no, not quite. How the cow twisted that one! Can Dad not see through all this crap?

      Whilst