Woman, Eating

A Literary Vampire Novel

Claire Kohda

• Publisher: HarperVia
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN:
  9780063140899
• eBook ISBN:
  9780063140905
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Littérature générale

An IndieNext Pick! A Best Book of 2022 in Harper's Bazaar, Daily Mail, Glamour, and Thrillist!

Most Anticipated of 2022 in The Millions, Ms. Magazine, LitHub

A young, mixed-race vampire must find a way to balance her deep-seated desire to live amongst humans with her incessant hunger in this stunning coming-of-age vampire debut from a writer-to-watch.

Lydia is hungry. She's always wanted to try Japanese food. Sashimi, ramen, onigiri with sour plum stuffed inside - the food her Japanese father liked to eat. And then there is bubble tea and iced-coffee, ice cream and cake, and foraged herbs and plants, and the vegetables grown by the other young artists at the London studio space she is secretly squatting in. But, Lydia can't eat any of these things. Her body doesn't work like those of other people. The only thing she can digest is blood, and it turns out that sourcing fresh pigs' blood in London - where she is living away from her vampire mother for the first time in a search for identity - is much more difficult than she'd anticipated.

Then there are the humans - the other artists at the studio space, the people at the gallery she interns at in the vibrant London art scene, the strange men that follow her after dark, and Ben, a boyish, goofy-grinned artist she is developing feelings for. Lydia knows that they are her natural prey, but she can't bring herself to feed on them. In her windowless studio, where she paints and studies the work of other artists, binge-watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer and videos of people eating food on YouTube and Instagram, Lydia considers her place in the world. She has many of the things humans wish for - perpetual youth, near-invulnerability, immortality – but she is miserable; she is lonely; and she is hungry - always hungry.

As Lydia develops as a woman and an artist, she will learn that she must reconcile the conflicts within her - between her demon and human sides, her mixed ethnic heritage, and her relationship with food, and, in turn, humans - if she is to find a way to exist in the world and finally find a sense of belonging. Before any of this, however, she must eat.

"Absolutely brilliant – tragic, a funny, eccentric and so perfectly suited to this particularly weird time. Claire Kohda takes the vampire trope and makes it her own in a way that feels fresh and original. Serious issues of race, disability, misogyny, body image, sexual abuse are handled with subtlety, insight, and a lightness of touch. The spell this novel casts is so complete I feel utterly, and happily, bitten." — Ruth Ozeki, Booker-shortlisted author of A Tale for the Time Being

Part One

1

The guy from Kora is standing outside the building in the sun. I’ve read online that this place used to be a biscuit factory.

“Hey,” the guy calls. He waves.

I feel self-conscious walking these last few meters, since he has seen me now and so is just watching me approach. It feels like a long time passes between the guy’s hey and my eventual arrival in front of him.

“Hey,” I say.

“Lydia?”

“Lyd.”

“Okay, hey Lyd. So, I’m Ben. You’re seeing . . .” He looks down at the paper he’s holding. “A14.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You know it doesn’t have much light, right?” He looks up. “I mean, if you want I can show you one of the studios with a skylight and everything.”

“No, it’s okay.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Photographer?”

“Performance.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised. I get this a lot. I come across shy. “Fair enough.”

Ben opens the door to the building. It’s a large metal door with an iron gate in front of it that he has to open first. There are four keys he uses to get in.

“Pretty secure,” Ben says. “It’s a definite plus for the women who work here. So you can be here late and you’ll probably feel safe.”

I look up. The windows don’t start until the second floor. It’d be difficult to reach them even with a ladder.

“Yeah, so—” Ben follows my line of sight “—there are no windows on the ground and first floors because the biscuits they made here were coated with chocolate.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s interesting, isn’t it?” The door opens with a clang. “A whole building basically designed around the fact that chocolate melts in sunlight.”

“Mm.” The building goes up very high. The first two floors look like part of the foundations.

There’s an awkward moment as we go inside. We both gesture for the other to go first, and then bump into one another as we try to go through the door at the same time.

“So, where did you come from?” Ben says as we walk down a dark corridor.

I pause. I get this a lot too. “Well, I’m from England. But my dad was Japanese, and my mum is half Malaysian.”

He turns around. “Oh my god, shit, no, sorry—I mean, where did you come from today? Like, are you living in London?”

“Oh, yeah,” I lie. “I live just near here, in Kennington.” I don’t actually live in Kennington. I’ve just seen the stop on the tube map.

“Nice!” Ben says. “It’s pretty nice around there, isn’t it?”

I nod.

Ben opens a door with a nameplate on it that reads “A14.” I step into the room. It’s quite small, but enough. On one side is a sink and a counter with a microwave on top and a small fridge underneath.

“The rent on this studio is cheaper than the ones with windows. It’s two hundred and fifty-five pounds per month, with Kora subsidizing the rest as part of the young artists’ scheme.” Ben’s looking at one of the pieces of paper he is holding. “Bills are on top, but they’re cheap. Payment is due on the twenty-eighth of every month. I can leave this with you if you decide to take the room.” He holds the piece of paper up to show me. “There’s a map too, fire exits, all that.”

“Do the lights dim?” I ask, and Ben nods. I go to the switch and try it. The lights go down until they’re almost off. I leave them at their lowest and, for a moment, the room looks like it is just made of shadows. Then, my eyes adjust and I can see everything. Ben squints in my direction, frowning slightly.

“I like it,” I say.

“Okay, great! You’ll take it?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s sit down with the contracts, then. So, shall we . . .”

I realize that he is expecting me to turn the lights up again.

“Okay,” I say, but I don’t go to the switch. I go to the table and sit down in the half-light, hoping that he will just go with it. He does. He stumbles a bit on his way to the table over nothing. People, I think to myself, have appalling night vision. And he sits down.

He spreads the papers on the table. Then he looks up toward me. In this light his features look very soft, whereas outside he had looked slightly more angular. I take in his cheeks, which are round and tinged pink. He must be quite young. He’s fairly good-looking. I smile at him. Ben puts one of his hands in the other, and then says, “Would you mind if I . . . ?” and points to the light above our heads. He begins to stand up from his seat.

“Actually, would you mind if we just left it?” I ask. “I’m getting a headache,” I add.

“Oh . . . yeah, yeah, sure. I’ve got some ibuprofen, if you want . . .” Ben sits down again, and reaches toward his bag next to him on the floor. It’s a nice, svelte-looking cycling bag.

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m good. I’m probably just hungry.” And as I say the word “hungry,” my stomach rumbles. I shuffle on my seat to disguise the noise, but it’s pretty loud and the empty room is particularly resonant. I feel embarrassed. Ben pretends he hasn’t heard it, which makes it even worse.

“Er, so . . . I can’t actually see the forms,” he says. He laughs and looks up. “But I’ve marked crosses where you need to sign.” He brings his head low over the table and squints. “Um,” he says. “Here’s one.”

He slides a piece of paper and a pen across the table toward me, his thumb held firmly partway down the page where I need to sign. I can see the cross; I can see it quite clearly, in black Sharpie at one end of a dotted line, but I don’t tell him. Instead, I pick up the pen, then feel where his hand is on the paper and use it as a guide. I feel his thumb with my fingertips. It’s very warm. I don’t know where this sudden decision to flirt has come from. I suppose, in this room, in the very dim light, I feel quite powerful. Men, I think, feel insecure in silence and much more confident when there’s the sound of traffic and other people all around. And this room is completely silent. I sign my name on the line.

“And where else?” I ask. He slides over another page, with his thumb there to guide me again.

“Okay, so, um. Basically, what you just signed is, you know, all the usual stuff.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Can’t sleep in here, have parties, no openings, no gatherings over, like, five people. No open flames, obviously. No, like, dangerous chemicals.” He laughs. He seems nervous.

“It’s okay, I read it all online.”

“Sorry,” Ben says. “Probably should have told you all that before you signed, right?”

I don’t say anything. His eyes are wide. “Okay,” he says, and he starts gathering together all the pieces of paper on the table. “When would you like to pick up the keys?”

“Now? I’ll move my stuff in today.”

“Today? Wow, yeah, okay. That’s quick. I won’t have time to properly clean the studio, but if that’s okay?” He reaches into the pocket of his shirt and takes out the key to this room, and also four other keys for the front door and front gate.

“That’s fine. I’m starting an internship tomorrow, so I want to get moved in before.”

“Oh, sweet. Where? Will I know the place?”

“The OTA,” I say.

“No way!” Ben says. “The Otter? Very nice. There’s another girl here who interned there a while back. You’ll probably meet her. Her name’s Shakti.” He hands me the keys. In the dim light, he misjudges where my hand is and puts his hand in mine along with the keys. “Oops,” he says. I can see that he is blushing.

I smile. “Thanks.”

“Where did you say you live in Kennington? Anywhere near City and Guilds?” he asks, as he puts his bag on his back.

“Yeah,” I say. I vaguely remember where City and Guilds is. And I can kind of imagine living around there. I think there are a few tall town houses, maybe, in that area. “In a flat-share,” I add.

“Oh, right, artists?”

I’m making up a life on the spot now. “No, a couple who work in music and a guy who’s just working in retail at the moment but he . . . he wants to get into film.”

“Ooh, good luck to him. I’ve got a mate in film; she’s a production designer. I can put him in touch if he wants.”

“Maybe, yeah.”

Ben starts cautiously making his way to the door. I like the knowledge that, while he is struggling simply to walk across the room in this light, I could easily thread a needle. I could sit him down and draw a detailed portrait of him. As I walk behind him, I study all the fine hairs growing out of the back of his neck, his goose-pimply skin and its light pinkness. Before he reaches the door, he turns around.

“Er, so.” He clears his throat. “So, I’m upstairs. My studio, I mean. I’m two floors above. The first floor with windows. There’s no one above you, so we’re basically neighbors.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “You’re an artist.”

“Yeah—but I do this for Kora, like all the studio viewings and stuff, and I manage the building so I get the studio for free. Anyway, if you want to pop in to say hello, I’m C14. And if I’m not in my studio, I’m in The Place a lot too.”

“The Place?”

“Yeah. The Place is the common living area, and the studios are The Space. It’s what we call them.” Ben’s smiling. I can see he finds this funny, maybe a bit embarrassing. “I know, it’s a bit of a cliché,” he adds. “It’s meant to be, like, the studios are . . . your space, you know? And The Place is, like”—he air quotes and puts on a voice like a narrator in a TV advert—“‘the place to be.’” He laughs and then snorts. I find it endearing.

He puts his hand on the door handle. The papers I have just signed are tucked under his arm. “So, I should . . .” he begins.

I kind of want to follow him out. There’s something about being with him that I find comforting, even though I’ve only just met him. He feels extremely human. His smile is cute, as is his nervousness. His skin is very taut over his body in the way a toddler’s is, which I find sweet. He’s covered in little freckles.

“Unless, do you fancy getting some lunch?”

My heart sinks. At the same time, I feel my stomach rumble again.

“I’m probably going to just pop down to Pret or something. Get one of those avo-falafel wraps,” he says.

“Yeah no,” I say—saying both yes and no as I always do when I want to say no to someone but without sounding harsh—“I can’t.”

“Oh, okay.” He looks a bit put out. I suppose he probably expected me to say yes after hearing my stomach rumble.

“Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You want me to pick you up a coffee or anything?”

I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Okay. Well.” He goes to open the door. “My number’s on the piece of paper I left on the table.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Hope your head feels better soon,” he says, and he opens the door—momentarily letting in a huge amount of dazzlingly bright light—slips out, and disappears down the hall.

I lie down on the floor. It’s just plain concrete with nothing on top. No carpet or rug or anything. The cold feels good on my back. The lights are still low. I’m more comfortable in the dark. It’s not even that the lights in here would burn me; it’s that sometimes too much light is overwhelming, especially after a day filled with things I’m not used to doing much of—packing, moving, traveling. It’s too much input, almost painful for the brain, not necessarily the skin. However, sunlight does burn. Not in the way it does in films and TV programs; I don’t let off smoke or singe, or burst into flames. Rather, my skin burns as if it has no pigment at all, as if I’m without any melanin, as if I’m completely and purely white.

I roll over onto my side. I can see the sink, fridge, and microwave from here. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Partly because I’ve been so busy. I left Mum’s house at seven-thirty. I went around all the rooms one last time to make sure there was nothing left behind. Crimson Orchard recommends that residents have as many of their belongings—photos, books, furniture even, any personal artifacts—arranged around their rooms as possible, because old things with memories already associated with them encourage the formation of new memories, apparently. But Mum still ended up having too much stuff. She essentially had several lives’ worth of belongings all stuffed into our little two-bedroom house. And some of it was really, really old. An ancient pair of spring scissors ended up being taken by a local museum when I put them up for sale on Facebook. One of my old school friends who works at the museum had seen my post and talked to the curator to see how much she would offer for them—and it turned out that they could offer a fair amount: enough to pay for a couple of months’ rent on my studio.

I left Mum at Crimson Orchard yesterday, so I could do the last bit of sorting by myself. I don’t know how she would feel if she knew she’d been moved out of her house; if she could see all the rooms empty; if she knew someone else would be moving in soon. The staff at Crimson Orchard are telling her that she is staying only temporarily and that, before long, she’ll go back home. They’ve let her keep her front-door keys, which she clutched in her hand right up until I left her. Although, quite soon, if she were to go back with them, the locks will have been changed.

“Lyds,” my mum said, when I was leaving. She looked out of place in her new room, which was decorated with someone in their eighties or nineties in mind. Mum has for the last couple of centuries looked like she is in her early forties. She still has black hair, just with some streaks of gray here and there. Her eyes are still bright.

“Mum, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” I said, as the doctor had told me to say.

“Julie, don’t worry,” the doctor said. “Lydia’s just going to pop out and get a cup of tea and a bite to eat.” But, of course, that was the wrong thing to say, and my mum’s eyes had widened until they were so big that they distorted the rest of her face, pushing her eyebrows far up her forehead. “You’re leaving! You’re leaving your mother!” Mum wailed, looking terrified like a child being left at nursery school for the first time.

“No, no, Mum, I’m not.” I reached to pat her on the head, but she twisted around and tried to bite me, so I pulled my hand away quickly. “The doctor misunderstood. I’m not going out to eat—I j...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Acknowledgments
• A Note on the Cover
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher