Daddy's Girl Read Free

wire fences, and soon she was back in the oak-lined avenuesof the suburbs that sheltered in the grey skirts of Table Mountain. She stopped at the dry cleaners and picked up her evening dress, buying a pair of high-heeled sandals on her way back to her car. She put them in the boot, then went to the studio to approve the final sound mix for that night’s broadcast of Missing . She requested two minor changes, and sent the programme off to her producer.

    Taking her copies of Missing with her, she drove home. She unlocked her front door and went upstairs to her quiet white sanctuary. Clare opened the sliding doors that led onto the balcony overlooking the Sea Point Promenade, her cat twisting between her ankles, purring its welcome. She picked Fritz up. The sea beyond sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. On the lawn near Clare’s house, a youngwoman was pushing her daughter in a yellow swing.
    ‘Higher, Mummy, higher!’ the child was calling, her hair flying in the wind. ‘I’m flying! Look at me, like a bird.’

3
    The afternoon sun broke though the cloud, splashing small hands on the barre and pooling on the floor; the girls’ serious faces looked straight ahead. From the piano, a simple minuet. One, two, three. One, two, three. Slow enough for everyone in the class to keep up, their tummies tight drums in new pink leotards.
    ‘First position. Heels together. Feet out. Hands held correctly, chinsup, plié . And smile and turn. And smile. And turn. And hold. Hands in front and second. Curtsey.’
    The ballet teacher marched down the line of little girls, adjusting a hand, a foot, tapping at protruding bottoms, bellies. She paused next to the dark-haired girl at the front of the line, touching her long nails to the girl’s cheek.
    ‘Smile, Yasmin. This isn’t a funeral.’
    The child smiledobediently. Her slender limbs were correctly positioned; she knew this from her ballet teacher’s approving frown. Madame Merle moved on.
    ‘Hands graceful, girls. First position and music, Mister Henry. And smile. And smile. And curtsey.’
    Clapping her hands, she dismissed the class and accepted a cigarette from the pianist. Mister Henry lit it for her.
    ‘What, Yasmin?’ Madame Merle becameaware of the lingering child.
    ‘Isn’t it too early, Madame?’ Madame Merle blew a smoke ring, round and perfect, over the child’s head.
    ‘Darling, it’s the gala tonight.’
    ‘ Persephone . The ballet about the girl who disappears,’ Mister Henry explained. ‘At Artscape.’
    ‘Oh.’ Still, Yasmin lingered.
    ‘Run along.’ Madame Merle turned away. The class was over. The beam of her attentionswitched off.
    Yasmin felt Mister Henry’s eyes on her as she negotiated the stream of six-year-olds rushing to the cars idling outside. Ever since her older friend Calvaleen had stopped dancing, hers was the only dark bun among the blondes.
    The change-room door burst open and the older girls billowed out, all tulle and chatter. Yasmin pressed herself against the wall, and then went to herlocker. She had a proper ballet dancer’s crossover cardigan, which Amma had knitted for her as an early birthday present. She tied the bow. Thinking about her birthday gave her a knot in her stomach. It was her birthday that had started all the trouble. Last year, when she turned six. In three sleeps she would be seven. She hoped it would be better this year.
    Yasmin reached into her bag forher takkies. Her mother always threw a fit if she went outside in her satin pumps. She pulled out her old shoes, dislodging a piece of green paper as she did so. She unfolded it, her heart beating faster. Zero-to-panic. That was Amma’s nickname for Daddy. That’s how she felt now. Zero-to-panic. She realised that it was another thing she’d forgotten. Madame Merle had handed out the notices with strictinstructions that they get them signed and return them to her.
    ‘So I can be absolutely sure that your mummies and daddies know to fetch you early,