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