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even
the name of the street. He laughed it off and signed the offer to purchase.
    Milla drove in, up to the triple garage doors. One for
Christo's Audi Q7. One had been for her Renault. One for Christo's toys.
    She pressed the remote for the garage door. It opened. She
took the neatly rolled mattress and sleeping bag, climbed out of the car and
walked in.
    The Q7's spot was empty.
    Relief.
    She hurried to the back where Christo's stuff was stored so
neatly. She put the bedding away in its place. Stood still, aware of the door on
the left, the one that led into the house. She knew she must not go through it.
She would smell Barend. She would see how they were living now. Here she would
feel the gravity of her life pulling at her.
    The sound of barking dogs down the street.
    Depression laid a hand on her shoulder.
    The dogs barked incessantly during the day in this
neighbourhood. 'Dogville'. It was her name for Durbanville when she dared once
more to complain about her lot to Christo.
    'Jissis , Milla, does nothing satisfy you?'
    She left the garage and hurried to her car.
     
    At the Palm Grove Mall in Durbanville town centre she slipped
into the first available car park, meaning to buy something for lunch at
Woolworths. When she got out, she saw the sign for the Arthur Murray dance
studio. She glanced at it for a moment, she had forgotten it was here, more
evidence of the daze that she had been living in.
    At the entrance to the supermarket she smelled the flowers
and looked at them, their colours so bright. It was like seeing them for the first
time. She thought about the words in her diary last night. How can I regain who I was, BC? Before Christo.
    Back at the Renault she looked at the signboard again.
    Dance. Christo wouldn't dance. Not even at university. Why
had she so meekly accepted his choices, his preferences? She had got so much
pleasure from dancing in those days, before it all changed.
    She unlocked her car, got in, put the flowers and the plastic
shopping bag with her lunch ingredients on the passenger seat.
    She was free of Christo.
    She got out again, locked the door and went in search of the
studio.
     
    On the dance floor in the bright light streaming through the
windows were a man and a woman. Young. He was wearing black trousers, white shirt,
black waistcoat. She had on a short wine-red dress, her legs long and lovely. A
tango played through the speakers, they glided over the wooden floor, with
effortless skill.
    Milla stared, enchanted by the beauty, the flow, the perfect
timing, their visible pleasure, and was filled with a sudden longing - to be
able to do something like that, so well. One beautiful thing you could lose
yourself in, where you could feel, and give and live.
    If only she could dance like that. So free.
    Finally she approached the desk in front. A woman looked up
and smiled.
    'I want
to learn,' said Milla.
    7
August 2009. Friday.
    Her hair was cut and dyed. She had chosen her outfit with
care. Her goal was informal professionalism, casual elegance with boots,
slacks, black sweater and red scarf. Now, as she waited for The Friend in the
Media 24 coffee shop she was uncertain - was her make-up too light, the scarf
overdone, did she look too formal, like someone trying too hard?
    But when The Friend appeared she said 'Milla! You look
wonderful!'
    'Do you think so?'
    'You know you're
beautiful.'
    But she didn't know.
    The Friend had studied with her, seventeen years ago, and
made her career in journalism. The Friend, finely featured, was currently
deputy editor of a well known women's magazine, and frequently spoke in accents
and exclamation marks.
    'How are things going with
you?'
    'Fine.' And then with some trepidation, 'I want to work.'
    'Write your book? At last!'
    'I'm thinking of a job in journalism ...'
    'No! Milla! What for? Trouble?'
    She knew she couldn't talk about everything yet. So she just
shrugged and said, 'Barend doesn't need me at home any more.'
    'Milla!
Not a good idea. You