Flush at Arcola Theatre

Three cubicles, no doors, graffiti on the walls. We are about to witness what happens inside a universal safe haven and meeting point. The one place where friendships blossom and bonds are forged, even if only temporarily: the women’s toilet in a nightclub. Written by April Hope Miller and directed by Merle Wheldon, Flush is precisely the play we needed right now. Bold, fresh, and with something urgent to say.

There is much to enjoy, and a lot happening in just over an hour. The plot revolves around the lives of 16 women converging inside the loos. They are all played by five incredibly talented actresses – Ayesha Griffiths, Jazz Jenkins, Miya Ocego, Joanna Strafford and Miller herself – who swiftly switch between costumes, personalities and accents.

The writing, sharp and naturalistic, touches upon many themes, from eating disorders and body dysmorphia to sexual assault and transphobia. Just like in real life, conversations overlap, and declarations of love are loudly made to complete strangers. There are many nods to all-too-relatable slices of life: having to fake laughter to re-record a voice note after the first one fails to go through, hiding from a bad Hinge date who performs feminism, the chain of compliments, and the moment someone sobers up when somebody else needs help. The care, the self-consciousness, the oversharing. The hurt too, whether from TERFism and exclusionary thinking about women’s spaces, or from the casual cruelties of dating culture and body judgment.

Tension is introduced gradually and organically. The first half is light-hearted and comedic as the audience meets the characters, including: a group on a hen do, stereotypical teenagers who have snuck in with fake IDs, and Billie (Jazz Jenkins), who has recently moved from the US for a job opportunity. Billie is attending a work fancy dress party and has yet to make friends. Jenkins plays only Billie, who also wears a recognisable costume. For the audience, she becomes the anchor.

At some point, Billie returns to the toilets with a scratch on her knee and a small blood-rimmed tear in her pale-blue tights. As we discover at the end, she has been sexually assaulted by her boss. Distressed and in shock, she carries this trauma alone – until the boisterous Maid of Honour of the hen do, played by Miller, sits down with her. Together, Jenkins and Miller deliver the most perfect ending for this rollercoaster of a play.

Every character could have been drawn from any friend group: confident, insecure, flawed, human, real. Friends, old or newly made, who become saviours, who wait with somebody they’ve just met for their Uber to arrive and share traumatic life experiences with them, making them feel less alone in this world. Ensuring they understand it was not their fault.

For those curious about what actually happens in there, this play reveals it. Flush is a fantastic insight into the microcosm that is the women’s toilets.