Free Unzipped by Nicki Reed

slam.
    ‘Your mother would not like to hear you speaking like that, Belinda.’
    ‘Why don’t you tell her and get back to me with what she says. Now, do you mind?’
    Angry pissing. Flushing. Flushing. Flushing. Doors slamming. Water running. Hand dryer. Footsteps receding.
    I check under the stalls, no feet, except BJ’s and mine.
    ‘You’re Carole Smart’s daughter?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Sitting on the toilet, underpants round my ankles, I don’t need to go but I assume the position. ‘You should have told me who you were.’
    ‘What was I meant to say? By the way, who is your husband’s boss?’
    ‘And your name is Belinda?’
    It can’t be. She’s BJ.
    ‘Belinda Jane Nantakarn, actually. Pretty, isn’t it? I’m not the only one going by a different name. Mark’s last name is Boyd. You’re Wheeler. If he was Mark Wheeler maybe I would have made the connection.’
    ‘We have to stop.’
    ‘So she’s his boss? We’re all adults.’
    ‘Your mother could make things difficult for Mark. She’s already got him where she wants him. I feel like I’ve been tricked.’
    ‘You are not making sense. Why don’t you come in here? Talk to me without the benefit of walls and doors? Show me that dress?’
    ‘No. Can you take me seriously?’
    ‘Do I get any say?’
    High heels clatter on tiles. We wait while whoever it is does her business. She must have been holding on all night. Eight coffees and four wines? Paper being pulled from the roll, slide, rip. Flush. A cubicle door opening. Footsteps.
    ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I say, watery, fragile.
    ‘What can’t you do anymore?’
    That’s not BJ’s voice.
    ‘Ah…use the half-flush button for paper,’ I say. ‘You’re not meant to, you know.’
    ‘It’s nothing to get upset about.’
    I pull my underpants up, press the button. The water churns.
    I find Mark in a group of five men, dinner suits, short hair, shoes with a vending-machine shine—a James Bond convention.
    ‘Hello, boys,’ my hand on Mark’s arm, ‘mind if I steal him for a minute?
    ‘What’s up?’
    I usually hold my own at work parties, find someone to talk to. I know my way around the safe, non-sticky conversations of the spouses.
    ‘Can we go? I feel sick.’
    ‘I can’t go now, it’s only nine-thirty. How’s that going to look?
    ‘It’ll look supportive of your wife.’
    ‘What’s the problem?’
    I’ve ditched the gorgeous girl I’ve been fucking.
    ‘I just need to go.’
    ‘You go. I’ll grab a taxi and meet you there, okay?’
    Suits me. I don’t need Mark to come with me; I need to look like I want him to. I can’t see BJ. Maybe she’s made a premature exit, too.

    In the car park: ‘You know the way?’
    ‘Yes, Mark. I know the way to Collins Street.’
    Cars are good for a quick cry. At the wheel, in my spot, facing the cinder block wall, ‘level five’ painted in red capital letters. Tissues in the glove box. I’ll be fine in a minute. Two minutes.

    In the Sofitel reception, high above the desk, are three of the biggest mirrors I’ve ever seen. I’m happy my tired look is out of reach.
    I dump my bag in the bathroom, have a long shower,the longest. Then stand at the window wrapped in a dressing-gown, fluffy-white and too big, it’s like I’m in the arms of a polar bear.
    My breath curls onto the glass.
    Fairy lights in the trees, headlights, brake lights. Horse and carriage lights bump up the hill. Collins Street is a two-way roller-coaster. I follow the stop-start-stop progress of a tram, its cables sparking blue and white and silver.
    I want to cry into a big pillow.
    A king-size bed is a holiday. When Mark rolls into bed, I feel it from a distance. His hand on my stomach, he pushes into my side.
    ‘Pee-Wee…’ he breathes beer, wine, cigars.
    I’m not having sex with anyone, that’s how this thing started.
    ‘No, can’t, feel sick.’
    He’s snoring before my words are out.

    ‘You’re quiet,’ he says. ‘Are you missing me