BooksBarbecue
Back The Scarlet Dress Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. Friday
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. Saturday
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. Sunday
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. One Week Later
  77. 71
  78. Afterwards
  79. 72
  80. Acknowledgments
  81. Reading Group Questions
  82. More from Louise Douglas
  83. About the Author
  84. About Boldwood Books

‘Yes,’ said John. He reached up, took Lucy’s small hand and squeezed it. His own was hoary and big and square. ‘You’ll see me soon, my best girl. Don’t you worry about that.’

35

Will couldn’t sleep. Guilt was keeping him awake. Guilt and frustration.

He got up and switched on the light. Stupid small room, he couldn’t even pace properly. He picked up his laptop from where it had been charging on the table and brought it back to the bed. He opened up the Alice file and looked at the official photograph, the famous one that the Langs had given to the police after her disappearance, the one that was in the newspapers until the dress was found.

Have you seen Alice?

The photograph had been taken at a family wedding. Alice must have been told what to wear by Cynthia Lang; she looked nothing like the young woman Will remembered. Her hair was shorter, styled in a conservative bob and completely blonde; she hadn’t started to grow out the colour. Either she was wearing pale make-up or she hadn’t been outside much, because her skin was lighter than Will remembered. She was wearing a voluminous flowery dress, which came to mid-calf, with a little white Peter Pan collar at the neck, unflattering, fawn-coloured tights and a navy jacket, navy shoes with a small buckle at the toe, a brooch on her lapel. Her make-up was minimal. She was standing between her parents like a prisoner between two guards, smiling at the camera, her trademark, wide gap-toothed grin, but if Will put his finger over her nose and mouth, on the screen, then it was obvious that her eyes were not smiling. There she was, playing the part, little Miss Perfect Daughter, which was what the Langs expected of her.

‘As long as I wear what they want, say what they want, do what they want, look like they want me to look, then they like me,’ she had told Will. ‘When I don’t, they withdraw their affection. They don’t like the real me. They’d like that part of me to be dead.’

Will tried to understand but it was hard for him because, as a parent, Angharad was the opposite. She adored Will exactly as he was. Almost every day, she would gather him in an embrace and say: ‘Don’t you ever change, you gorgeous, beautiful boy.’ She wasn’t soft, wasn’t averse to smacking the back of his head if he swore or misbehaved, yet she never tried to make him be something he was not. Even when Mr deVillars planted the possibility of university in his mind and Will decided it was something he’d like to aim for, she never once tried to stop him; never said a word to make him feel guilty or selfish even though he knew she would miss him terribly when he went away.