Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Madeline leaned against the toilet door and took a deep breath. Bitch, bugger, bum, tit, piss, cock, fart – the mantra unspoken but repeated in her head over and over. She let the breath out slowly. How the fuck did I end up here? Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck fuck! There was a heaviness somewhere between the base of her spine and her buttocks that was becoming more urgent. She needed to shit. Now. What the fuck? Who needs to take a dump at 10 o’clock at night? Really. Here of all places – at a house party hosted by the woman who she was sure was – at the very least – in love with her husband. It was like her whole world had turned so far upside down that even her bowels weren’t obeying the rules of nature.
Outside, only a metre and a half from where she stood, on the other side of the weatherboard wall, most of the party were gathered around a glowing four gallon drum. The edge of the day’s heat was just starting to ease, but really it was still too hot for the fire. But who doesn’t love an outdoor burn off in the suburbs? John was out there, probably, with Yoko. Madeline grimaced as she thought about her looking up at him doe eyed and laughing at every little stupid thing he said, batting those eyelashes (false!) and stretching that tiny dancer’s body into intricate poses just to listen to his crap. Fuck her. John had left her very early on in the night, ostensibly to get some air and put the beers they’d brought in the ice in the laundry trough, and she’d been willing herself not to follow him and find out what he was doing and who he was with ever since. In fact she didn’t blame him, truth be told. Even if he wasn’t besotted with the hostess, at the end of the day even she wanted to get away from herself tonight. She’d been acting like a right cow since before they’d even left the house and all through the dinner that she’d insisted they have first. But I’m his cow she thought, so he should just suck it up.
It was bad enough that she’d turned into one of those paranoid needy chicks, without actually starting to act on it and start physically stalking him – so she’d obstinately stayed in the stinking hot living room and faked some kind of interest in the conversation around her. She’d ended up kind of cornered on the end of a couch listening to some guy who’s name that she knew she should remember, explaining banking policy to her. He was keen to help her understand why “The Man” would always win out over “The Little Guy” in the end. Sweet Jesus! She wished she could muster up the interest or respect to participate and tell him what she thought. But he wasn’t all that wrong. And it meant that she wasn’t out looking for John and demonstrating her neediness or wondering who else at the party were already in on their affair – assuming that they had blown the lid of the sexual tension at some point. She told herself for the thousandth time to stop being paranoid. He’s a great guy and he loves me. Me. Though tonight, only god knows why. It’s good that he has a broad network of friends and I should be proud that he’s so kind to her. She’s been through a lot these last few months finishing her PH.D and losing her mother suddenly. He’s a good man. You’re a lucky woman.
Yeah. Sure. Her inner voice was in full bitch mode tonight.
They must be throwing stuff in the fire outside she thought as she pulled down her undies and sat on the toilet. Every now and then there’s a second or mores silence followed by hoots, cheers and laughter. She looked across toward the vanity. The floor dipped down in the corner where the foundations of the single fronted terrace had dropped. Some of the ugly hexagonal tiles – mission brown – had fallen off the wall, revealing the even uglier remains of grout and tile adhesive, raked in lines like some kind of vertical zen garden created by a crazed midget. A grubby glass held two toothbrushes, both furry and in need of replacement, and an almost empty tube of toothpaste. The pop up lid had been left open and there were crusty gluggy bits on the sides preventing it from closing properly. The pink loo brush was poked into the corner, not quite right in its holder, was supported precariously between the wall and a pyramid of no frills loo paper.
Push.
Madeline hadn’t looked John in the eye all evening. In the car she’d stared straight ahead, humming tunelessly to whatever it was that was playing on the radio – and walked from the car to the pub just that little bit diagonally behind him (heels a little too high, skirt a little too tight, bluestone in the dark – a recipe for falling over). There were 10 minutes or so where she alternated between studying the menu and looking at the other diners. When did talk she looked at his mouth. Everything he said pissed her off. Even when he agreed with her, and he wasn’t stupid enough not to. At least they were talking, though they weren’t saying much. They talked about the girls, of course: Lucy’s swimming lessons – how would she go in the next class when John wouldn’t be in the water with her. Rosie’s current fascination with fishing and whether they should have got her a rod and line for Christmas after all. Stuff.
Push. Breathe out. Relax.
John had kicky legs. He’d fidgeted all night. His voice telling her he wasn’t all that keen to go, that he didn’t care if they just had dinner and went straight home, but his body betraying his anxiety to get to the party. The way his knee bounced reminded her of when she was pregnant, that bizzare need to move your feet – and not in a great lets get down and boogie kind of way. Like something invisible had been holding a feather to the backs of her knees, tickling her – only from the inside, so that the only thing she could do was squirm. Today the feather was in her stomach. How much coffee had she drunk today? She was simultaneously wired and exhausted. Squirming. The pit of her stomach felt cold and empty. As if she’d suddenly fallen from a great height – only she hadn’t done as much as jump of the couch all day. John’s fidgeting was pissing her off too. She was the human equivalent of kindling, ready to go at the slightest spark. If she wasn’t so fractious, she’d almost feel sorry for him.
Push.
She emptied her mind and heard the sticky mass hit the water, instantly feeling that much better. Breathing out she reached for the loo paper and wiped. Jesus she was hot and sticky. It must have been forty degrees today and she wasn’t convinced that cool change had hit. Why the fuck have they lit a fire she thought idly, simultaneously recognising that she was in that kind of mood that she’d blame Yoko for just about anything tonight. She made a mental note to stop calling her Yoko. It was rude. And she didn’t want it to be prophetic.
She wiped again. Front to back like she’d been taught before she could even remember, and as she’d taught her own girls. Again, there were sticky brown smears on the paper. A third, a fourth and a fifth wipe before she came close to clean. She could feel sweat dripping down from the small of her back – why hadn’t she used anti perspirant? She wondered if she was even wearing clean underwear. These days it was such a big deal to get her two little girls fed and washed and ready for the babysitter that she felt it was an achievement to be washed and wearing matching shoes herself, personal grooming wasn’t the priority that it might have been in the past. Standing up, she felt under her sweaty armpit with one hand as she flushed with the other. Fuck, she hadn’t shaved either. Fuck.
The water swirled and rushed just as the guys outside hooted and cheered again at whatever stupid game they were playing with the fire. I may as well have stayed home with the kids she thought. But there was no way she’d have let John come alone. She hadn’t even put the words in a sentence yet, but there’s something going on. Something not right. Maybe not an actual “thing”, but a “something”. She didn’t have the words for what it might be. She just knew she didn’t like it.
She washed her hands and glanced into the toilet bowl as she reached to unlatch the door. Fuck. It hadn’t flushed. Her big (yes, really big) chocolate brown pooh and way too much toilet paper remained well within sight. She flushed again, but this time nothing – no water rushing, no cheering or hooting from outside. Shit. Shit!
Ok. Breathe out she thought. She only thought it though, she wasn’t really capable of doing it. Who the fuck has a party if their loo isn’t working? Fucking students. She opened the cupboard above the vanity, knowing even as she did so that there wasn’t going to be anything in there that would help flush the loo. But opening it meant that she couldn’t see her own hot red face, so it kind of helped. There was a contact lens case in the cupboard and for a fleeting second she fantasised about dipping it in the shitty loo and putting it back in the cupboard, but even as she tasted the quick thrill that the idea brought with it, she knew she’d never do it. She looked around the bathroom for something to fill with water – maybe she could manually flush. Her bathroom was always filled with ice-cream containers and plastic boats – who’d have thought it, there are benefits to having toddlers in the house – bath toys could be used for flushing loos. But no, this bathroom was devoid of toys – unless you counted the particularly useless jasmine scented candle on the edge of the bath.
OK, she thought, I just have to wait and hope no one else needs to go. She contemplated having a shower – but not seriously. Outside the music got louder. No one was missing her. This is as bad as it can get she thought. So she slid down onto the cold tiled floor and waited for the cistern to refill.
