Mrs. March: A Novel

by Virginia Feito

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

“I read Virginia's novel in one sitting and was so captured by it I knew I had to make it and play Mrs. March. As a character, she is fascinating, complex, and deeply human and I can't wait to sink my teeth into her.” —Elisabeth Moss

Who is Mrs. March?

George March's latest novel is a smash. No one could be prouder than his dutiful wife, Mrs. March, who revels in his accolades. A careful creature of routine and decorum, she lives a precariously controlled existence on the Upper East Side until one morning, when the shopkeeper of her favorite patisserie suggests that her husband's latest protagonist—a detestable character named Johanna—is based on Mrs. March herself. Clutching her ostrich leather pocketbook and mint-colored gloves, she flees the shop. What could have merited this humiliation?

That one casual remark robs Mrs. March of the belief that she knew everything about her husband—and herself—thus sending her on an increasingly paranoid journey that begins within the pages of a book. While snooping in George's office, Mrs. March finds a newspaper clipping about a missing woman. Did George have anything to do with her disappearance? He's been going on a lot of “hunting trips” up north with his editor lately, leaving Mrs. March all alone at night with her tormented thoughts, and the cockroaches that have suddenly started to appear, and strange breathing noises . . . As she begins to decode her husband's secrets, her deafening anxiety and fierce determination threaten everyone in her wake—including her stoic housekeeper, Martha, and her unobtrusive son, Jonathan, whom she loves so profoundly, when she remembers to love him at all.

Combining a Hitchcockian sensibility with wickedly dark humor, Virginia Feito, a brilliantly talented and, at times, mischievous newcomer, offers a razor-sharp exploration of the fragility of identity. A mesmerizing novel of psychological suspense and casebook insecurity turned full-blown neurosis, Mrs. March will have you second-guessing your own seemingly familiar reflection in the mirror.

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Liveright

Print pages: 290

Sample

I

George March had written another book.

It was a large tome, the cover featuring an old Dutch oil painting of a young handmaiden touching her neck modestly. Mrs. March passed a rather impressive pyramid of hardcovers in the window of one of their neighborhood bookstores. Soon to be heralded as George March’s magnum opus, the book was—unbeknownst to her—already creeping its way onto all the bestseller and book club lists, selling out in even the less transited bookshops, and inspiring enthusiastic recommendations among friends. “Have you read George March’s new book?” was now the latest cocktail-party conversation starter.

She was on her way to her favorite patisserie—a lovely little place with a red awning and a whitewashed bench in front. The day was chilly, but not unbearably so, and Mrs. March took her time, admiring the now-barren trees lining the streets, the velvet poinsettias bookending storefronts, the lives on display through the townhouse windows.

When she reached the pastry shop, she glanced at her reflection in the glass door before pushing it open and stepping inside, the bell overhead tinkling to announce her arrival. She was immediately flushed by the hot breaths and clammy bodies within, mingled with the heat of the ovens in the kitchen. A generous queue had formed at the counter, snaking around the few scattered tables occupied by couples and convivial businessmen, all having coffee or breakfast, indifferent to their own loudness.

Mrs. March’s pulse quickened with the telltale excitement and wariness that always manifested right before she interacted with others. She joined the line, smiling at the strangers around her, and pulled off her kidskin gloves. A Christmas gift from George two years earlier, they were a very distinct color for gloves: a sort of mint green. She would never have picked that color out, not once believing she could pull such a thing off, but she thrilled at the fantasy that strangers, when they saw her wearing them, would assume her to be the kind of carefree, confident woman who would have selected such a bold color for herself.

George had purchased the gloves at Bloomingdale’s, which never ceased to impress her. She’d pictured George at the glove counter, bantering with fawning saleswomen, not in the least embarrassed to be shopping in the women’s department. She had once attempted to buy some lingerie at Bloomingdale’s. That particular summer day had been sweltering, her shirt sticking to her back and her sandals to the pavement. Sweat seemed to ooze from the very sidewalks.

In the middle of a workday, Bloomingdale’s mostly attracted well-to-do housewives—women who approached the clothing racks languidly, pastel pink smiles smeared over frowning lips, looking as if they didn’t really want to be there but oh, there was just no way around it, what could one do, really, but try on some clothes and perhaps buy a few. This type of energy proved more intimidating for Mrs. March than the one that pervaded the store in the evenings, when working women threw themselves at the racks with absolutely no grace or dignity, flipping swiftly through the hangers and not caring to pick up the clothes that slid to the floor.

That morning at Bloomingdale’s, Mrs. March had been ushered into a large fitting room swathed in pink. A heavy velvet settee sat in a corner next to a private telephone from which she could call the saleswomen, whom she pictured giggling and whispering just outside the door. Everything in the room, including the carpet, was a sappy, sticky pink, like the bubblegum breath of a fifteen-year-old girl. The bra they had selected for her, dangling provocatively on a silk-padded hanger on the fitting room door, was soft and light and sweet-smelling, like whipped cream. She pressed a lacy piece of string to her face and sniffed it, touched her blouse tentatively, but could not bring herself to undress and try the delicate thing on.

She ended up purchasing her lingerie at a small store downtown owned by a limping, mole-ridden woman who correctly guessed her bra size after one quick look at her fully clothed form. Mrs. March liked the way the woman had pandered to her, complimenting her figure and, better yet, maligning other clients’ figures between disappointed oy veys. The women in this store gazed at her expensive clothes with perceptible yearning. She never returned to Bloomingdale’s.

Now, standing in line at the pastry shop, she looked down at the gloves in her hands, then at her nails, and was dismayed to see that they were dry and cracked. She pulled the kidskin gloves back on and, as she looked up, discovered that somebody had cut right in front of her. Thinking it an obvious mistake, she attempted to determine if the woman was simply greeting someone already in the queue, but no, the woman stood in front of her in silence. Uneasily, Mrs. March debated whether or not to confront the woman. It was rather rude to cut the queue, if that was indeed the woman’s intention, but what if she was mistaken? So she said nothing and instead chewed the inside lining of her mouth—a compulsive habit inherited from her mother—until the woman paid and left, and it was Mrs. March’s turn.

She smiled over the counter at Patricia, the big-haired, red-cheeked woman who managed the shop. She liked Patricia, whom she saw as a sort of plump, foulmouthed yet kindly innkeeper; the type of character who would protect a gaggle of lowly orphans in a Dickens novel.

“Ah, and here’s the most elegant woman in the room!” Patricia said as Mrs. March approached, and Mrs. March beamed and turned to see whether anyone had heard. “The usual, honey?”

“Yes, black olive bread and—well, yes,” she said. “And this time I’d like two boxes of macarons, please? The big ones.”

Patricia scuffled behind the counter, flinging her massive frizz of hair from one shoulder to the other as she gathered the order. Mrs. March took out her pocketbook, still smiling dreamily at Patricia’s compliment, stroking the raised bumps on the ostrich leather with her fingertips.

“I’ve been reading your husband’s book,” said Patricia, temporarily out of sight as she crouched behind the counter. “I bought it two days ago and I’m almost finished. Can’t put it down. It’s great! Truly great.”

Mrs. March moved closer, pressing against the glass case of assorted muffins and cheesecakes, in an effort to hear over the din. “Oh,” she said, unprepared for this exchange. “Well, that’s nice to know. I’m sure George will think it’s nice to know.”

“I was just saying to my sister last night, I know the writer’s wife, and boy must she be proud.”

“Oh, well, yes, although he’s written many books before—”

“But isn’t this the first time he’s based a character on you?”

Mrs. March, still fingering her pocketbook, experienced a sudden numbness. Her face hardened just as her insides seemed to liquefy, so that she feared they might leak out. Patricia, oblivious, set her order on the countertop and tallied up the bill.

“I . . .” said Mrs. March, struck by a sliver of pain in her chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . the main character.” Patricia smiled.

Mrs. March blinked, her mouth agape, unable to answer, her thoughts sticking to her skull despite her pulling at them, as if they were trapped in tar.

Patricia frowned at the silence. “I could be wrong, of course, but . . . you’re both so alike, I just thought—well, I picture you when I read it, I don’t know—”

“But . . . the main character, it—isn’t she . . .” Mrs. March leaned in and in almost a whisper said, “a whore?”

Patricia let out a loud, good-natured laugh at this.

“A whore no one wants to sleep with?” Mrs. March added.

“Well, sure, but that’s part of her charm.” Patricia’s smile faltered when she saw the expression on Mrs. March’s face. “But anyway,” she continued, “it’s not that, it’s more . . . the way she says things, her mannerisms, even, or the way she dresses?”

Mrs. March glanced down at her long fur coat, her stockinged ankles and polished tasseled loafers, then back up at Patricia. “But she’s a horrible woman,” she said. “She’s ugly and stupid and everything I would never want to be.”

The denial came out a little more visceral than she had intended, and Patricia’s doughy face kneaded itself into a look of surprise. “Oh, well . . . I just thought . . .” She frowned and shook her head, and Mrs. March despised her for her imbecilic expression of puzzlement. “I’m sure I’m wrong then. Don’t listen to me, I almost never read anyway, what the hell do I know.” She smiled brightly as if that settled it. “Will that be all, honey?”

Mrs. March swallowed, nauseated, and looked down at the brown paper bags on the counter, which held her olive bread and her breakfast muffins and the macarons she had ordered for the party she was hosting tomorrow evening—an intimate, tasteful affair to celebrate George’s recent publication in the company of their closest friends (or at least their most important ones). She sidled away from the counter, looking down at the gloves clutched in her ugly hands, surprised to discover that she’d taken them off again. “I’m—you know, I think I forgot something,” she said, stepping backward. What was once safe, heavy background noise seemed to have dissipated into conspiratorial whispers. She turned to identify the culprits. At one of the tables, a woman, smiling, caught her eye.

“I’m sorry, I have to see if I—”

Abandoning her bags on the counter, Mrs. March made her way to the exit through the winding line, their murmurs ringing in her ears, their butter-scented breath hot against her skin, their bodies almost pressing against her. With desperate effort she pushed herself out through the door and onto the sidewalk, where the biting air sheeted her lungs and she was unable to breathe. She clutched a nearby tree. As the bell on the patisserie door jingled behind her, Mrs. March hurried to the other side of the street, not wanting to turn in case it was Patricia behind her. Not wanting to turn in case it wasn’t.

II

Mrs. March walked briskly down the street, with no identifiable purpose, not following her usual route, and anyway nothing was usual without her daily olive bread and breakfast muffins. The macarons could be replaced, she supposed; there was still time before the party. Or else she could send Martha to get them later. Patricia and Martha had never met, after all, although Patricia might suspect if Martha commissioned the very same items. “Can’t send Martha there, too risky,” she said aloud, and a man passing next to her gave a little jump.

She found it strange—never seeing Patricia again. Patricia, who had been a regular presence in her life for years. She had certainly not imagined, as she had pulled on her pantyhose that morning, and selected the maroon skirt to pair with her ruffled ivory blouse, that this would be the last day she would see Patricia. If someone had told her so, she would have laughed. Patricia would eventually work out that this had been the last day they had seen each other, and perhaps she would also dissect the minutiae of their last encounter—what she was wearing and doing and saying, and she too would wonder at the sheer impossibility of it all.

Maybe it wasn’t really so dramatic, that Patricia should have acted so thoughtlessly. An unfortunate thing, yes, but really, Patricia had been the only person to venture any parallel between her and that woman. That character, she corrected herself. She’s not even real. Quite possibly based on a living model . . . but George would never . . . would he?

She turned frantically into a busier street swarming with pedestrians and trumpeting with car horns. A woman smiled at her knowingly from a billboard, eyebrows raised at her like that woman in the patisserie. SHE HAD NO IDEA, the ad copy read, and Mrs. March stopped so suddenly that a man crashed into her. After a series of profuse apologies, she decided she needed to sit down and went into the nearest establishment, a poky little café.

It was drab inside, and not at all cozy. The paint on the ceiling peeling off in spots, the tables marked with swirling streaks where they had been wiped down in haste, the bathroom doorknob scratched as if someone had tried to break in. She counted two customers in total, and not very glamorous ones at that. Mrs. March slouched by the entrance, waiting to be seated, although she knew that wasn’t how this kind of place worked. She removed her mint green gloves and, as she looked them over, the recent unpleasant events flashed at her like headlights. Patricia’s words. George’s book. Her.

The shameful truth of the matter was, she had not read the book. Not really. She had barely managed to skim through a draft the previous year. The days when she would read George’s early manuscripts, sitting barefoot on a wicker chair while sucking on orange wedges in his old apartment, were long gone, unrecognizable in her gray, polluted present. She had a general sense of the book, of course—knew what it was about, knew about the fat, pathetic prostitute—but she had not stopped to consider it further. She had been, she now decided, too repulsed by the main character and the graphic, distastefully accurate story, to allow herself to continue. “Mannerisms,” she muttered under her breath. She inspected her nails again. She wondered whether that was one of them.

“Morning, ma’am, you’re alone?”

She looked at the server, clad in a black apron, which she found a tad lugubrious for a café—“I, no, not alone—”

“Table for two then?”

“Well, I’m not sure, the person I’m waiting for might not make it. Yes, let’s say for two, for now. That one?” She pointed to a table against the wall nearest the bathroom.

“No problem. Would you like to wait for this other person or shall I go ahead and take your order?”

Mrs. March could almost detect the trace of a bluff-calling smirk on the server’s face. “That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll order for both of us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. March remembered the first time she had been called “ma’am,” or, more precisely, “madame”—she’d been unprepared, it had stunned and hurt her like a slap. Just shy of her thirtieth birthday, she had traveled to Paris for one of George’s book tours. Alone in their suite that morning, with George out signing books, she ordered herself a decadent breakfast: croissants and hot chocolate and crêpes with butter and sugar. When the waiter rolled in the cart, she received him in an oversized bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower, her makeup streaked. She worried that she must look almost too provocative, too sensual, her lips a little swollen from rubbing them with a terrycloth towel to eliminate traces of last night’s wine. However, when she thanked the waiter (a lanky young man, barely out of his teens, neck ringed with sunburn) and tipped him, he said, “Thank you, madame,” and left the room. Just like that. He had not found her desirable in the least. In fact, he would likely consider the very notion of her naked body repulsive, and even though she wasn’t old enough to be his mother, he probably saw her as such anyway.

Now, the black-aproned waiter hovered at a slight distance, scratching absentmindedly at a scab on his wrist. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”

Once she had ordered two coffees—an espresso for her and a latte for her imaginary potential plus-one—she inhaled deeply and returned to the topic at hand. Johanna—that was the name of the protagonist, she recalled. Johanna. She whispered it to herself. She hadn’t given much thought to the name before, had never questioned why George had selected that particular name for that particular character. She didn’t know a single Johanna, nor had she ever. She wondered if George had. She hoped so, as that would indicate with almost complete certainty that this monstrous caricature was based on someone else entirely.

Nursing her espresso, she recalled—feeling sad for herself—how she had supported George at the beginning of his career by listening to him, by nodding at whatever he said, by not complaining. Even though she’d known there was no money in writing. George had said such a thing often, apologetically, as had her father (less apologetically). In those days George would take her out to his favorite cheap little Italian joint, where the waiters rattled off the menu—always different, always fresh—each night from memory. There, seated at a table sans tablecloth, a candle in a wine bottle flickering between them, he’d tell her about his latest story, his newest idea, as if he too had a fresh menu every night. She’d marveled at the genuine interest this respectable college professor appeared to have in her opinions. Not wanting to jinx it with her personality, she smiled at him and nodded and flattered him. All for him, for her George.

What could have merited this humiliation? Now the whole world would look at her differently. George knew her so well, maybe he had assumed she would never read it. A risky maneuver. But no, she concluded with scorn, he didn’t really know her that well at all. Johanna—she imagined her vividly now, sitting beside her in the cramped café, sweaty and black-toothed, she of spotted bosom and paltry existence—was nothing like her. She considered storming into every bookstore, buying every copy, destroying them somehow—a huge bonfire lit on a cold December night—but that was mad, of course.

She drummed her fingers on the table, checked her wristwatch blindly, and, unable to bear the anxiety any longer, resolved to return home and read the book. George had several copies of it in his study, and he was away until evening.

She paid for the coffees, apologizing for her absent friend, Johanna, whose untouched latte cooled, foamless, on the table. The black-aproned waiter paid no heed as she stepped out, pantyhose wrinkling around her ankles like furrowed brows, as if in reaction to the cold.

Walking home, Mrs. March passed a clothing store where two saleswomen were undressing a mannequin in the window. The women pulled at the dummy’s clothes viciously, one taking off her hat and stole and the other tugging at her dress, exposing one glossy, nipple-less breast. The mannequin looked on with such vivid, black-lashed blue eyes, and such a painful, wretched expression, that it compelled Mrs. March to look away.

III

Mr. and Mrs. March lived in a rather agreeable apartment on the Upper East Side, with a dark green entrance canopy displaying the address—Ten Forty-Nine—in cursive script, each word capitalized, as in the title of a book or a movie.

The building, its small, box-shaped windows stacked with small, box-shaped air-conditioning units, was presently guarded by the day doorman, rigid in his uniform, who saluted Mrs. March courteously as she entered the lobby. Courteous but contemptuous, Mrs. March thought. She always assumed he must despise her—and most likely everyone else in the building. How could he not, when he was there to serve them and adjust to the patterns of their lives while they lived in luxury and never once bothered to glean anything about him? Although, she now considered woefully, maybe the others had made an effort to know him. Maybe the fact that she never asked him anything about himself, that she’d never after all these years noticed if he wore a wedding band or if he displayed any children’s drawings by his desk, accounted for the starch in his manner toward her. How inadequate and unworthy he must find her, especially when compared to the other women in the building—retired ballerinas and former models and heiresses to great fortunes, some of them.

She crossed the lobby, which had been decorated for the holiday season as it was every year. A Christmas tree stood in the corner nearest the entrance, adorned with secular stars and candy canes (no choir of angels or rustic Nativity), and wreaths of artificial fir hung over the lobby mirror. She looked at her reflection in passing and, as usual, found it substandard, and tried to plump out her hair.

She was careful, when entering the elevator—a grand, ornate contraption—to check behind her in case anyone else intended to enter. It was often taxing, interacting with neighbors, and the ensuing expectation to comment on the nation’s state of affairs, or the building’s state of affairs, or, horror of horrors, the weather—she was simply not up to it today, of all days.

The mirror paneling inside the elevator revealed several Mrs. Marches, all looking at her, alarmed. She turned away from them to focus on the numbered buttons lighting up in sequence as the elevator arrived at the sixth floor. She closed her eyes and sighed in an effort to center herself.

Her nerves dissolved when she reached door number 606. Such a beautiful, round number, she had always thought. She would have felt worse after this bad day if she had come home to a 123, or some such discomfiting number.

She opened the door to a rush of fresh air—Martha must be airing out the living room—and hurried through the hallway, wishing to avoid her housekeeper at all costs. She ducked into her bedroom, where she could hear through the wall the fast-paced jazz playing at the neighbors’. The walls were shamefully thin for such a luxurious apartment, and Mrs. March wondered, not for the first time, why they hadn’t addressed the issue when they first renovated. She may not have even noticed it back then.

She shed her coat and gloves as if removing a suit of armor, then stepped out of her shoes and walked into the hallway, treading lightly on the creaking wooden flooring that was so fond of betraying her presence. She stood still for some seconds, illuminated only by the lazy sunlight drifting into the hallway through the open door of her bedroom. ...