Mrs March

Virginia Feito was raised in Madrid and Paris, and studied English and drama at Queen Mary University of London. She worked as a copywriter until she quit to write her debut novel. She lives in Madrid.

‘I read Mrs March in one sitting and was so captured by it … As a character, [Mrs March] is fascinating, complex, and deeply human’ Elisabeth Moss‘Feito nods deftly to her forebears – there are shades of Hitchcock and Highsmith here … while the opening chapter puts one in mind of Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway … Nastily good fun’ Claire Allfree, Metro‘Virginia Feito’s noirish debut novel left me rapt, gleefully ambivalent about her eponymous protagonist: did I like her? Did I find her funny? Did I want to hug her? Was I bit a scared of her? Did I relate to her? To all of the above: yes … an elegant, claustrophobic psychological thriller that feels incredibly original’ Evening Standard‘What a rancid little book, I absolutely loved it’ Alice Slater‘The atmosphere of queasy foreboding is compelling, as is the portrayal of a flawed, troubled and complex individual trying to keep it together while coming apart at the seams’ Economist‘A brilliantly tense psychological study from a writer who keeps pace with the grandees she invokes – Du Maurier, for one … Feito has done that most horrible, wonderful and truly novelistic of things: she has seen right through Mrs March and into the shameful, petty, maggoty secrets that everybody carries’ Guardian'A delicious, disorienting study of suspicion, societal pressure and shifting identities, brilliantly rendered. I swallowed this tale down as greedily as if it were Mrs. March's beloved olive bread' Rachel Edwards, author of Darling‘Gloriously grotesque: tormented by the desire for glossy magazine perfection; cruelly judgemental; frantic to believe the world revolves around her. And yet Feito makes her guilt-inducingly relatable…The gothic awfulness of her predicament reminds you of Ottessa Moshfegh’s grand guignol creations and lurid descriptive talents; Shirley Jackson’s claustrophobic horror’ The Times