FROM DESSERT TO DAWN

What It’s Really Like to Become a Vampire’s Permanent Girlfriend Featuring Sabrina Vale, author of DAWN GIRL: How One Night Became Forever Sabrina Vale hardly needs an introduction. Her memoir, DAWN GIRL: How One Night Became Forever , turned one of VamFem.com ’s most talked-about permanent relationships into one of the defining stories of modern vampire dating — largely because Vale refused to romanticize the transition from one unforgettable night to waking up months later and realizing that her old apartment had effectively become a very expensive storage unit. Readers already know the famous chapter titles. They know she was never formally asked to move in. They know breakfast somehow became her responsibility. They know she still insists nobody properly explains what happens when the vampire keeps you . What they don't know is what happened afterward. For this rare Vampire Dating Magazine interview, Vale agreed to talk about the things she left out of the book: the physical changes, the feeding nights, the strange new rhythms of life in the penthouse, the wardrobe she never expected to own, and the uncomfortable truth that becoming a Perma-Girl does not make vampire life feel normal. It simply makes the extraordinary permanent. Welcome Upstairs The penthouse appears repeatedly in DAWN GIRL , although Vale was maddeningly vague about what it actually looked like. She described private elevators, disappearing wardrobes, breakfasts eaten at indecent hours and one memorable argument conducted somewhere “between the bedroom and a sofa larger than my first apartment.” Photographs were conspicuously absent. Tonight, for the first time, I am being invited upstairs. The address is withheld by agreement. So is the floor. The elevator requires a private key. There is no hallway when the doors open. One moment I am inside polished brass and mirrors; the next I am standing directly inside the penthouse. My first view of it makes me forget the question I had been rehearsing during the ride upstairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across what appears to be half the city. Black marble reflects hundreds of candles. Deep burgundy velvet sofas sit beneath gold and crystal lighting, a grand piano occupies one corner, red roses appear everywhere without somehow becoming excessive, and beyond the glass the city glitters several hundred feet below us. It is less an apartment than someone's extremely expensive interpretation of midnight. And standing beside the windows waiting for me is Sabrina Vale. I have seen the author photographs. I have seen the television interviews. Neither quite prepares me for her in person. She is thirty-three. That surprises me. Not because thirty-three is old, but because she has the unmistakable vitality of someone several years younger; luminous skin, glossy dark hair, a narrow waist, beautifully shaped arms and legs, and the relaxed posture of a woman entirely comfortable in her own body. She wears a simple black cocktail dress. At least I assume it is simple until I get close enough to realize nothing in this apartment is simple. “You're staring,” she says. I'm working. “Of course.” She leads me toward the sofa. I notice the heels first. Black, impossibly high, red beneath the sole, with a tiny ruby charm resting against one ankle. She catches me looking. “Those were a Tuesday present.” A Tuesday present? “She thought I looked tired.” I haven't even opened my notebook yet. She Doesn't Look Kept. She Looks Incredible. Once we're seated, I tell her that readers are going to want to know what everyone always wants to know. Was she always in this kind of shape? She laughs. “Absolutely not.” Gym? “Not anymore.” Personal trainer? She shakes her head. Diet? Another shake. Then what? She looks around the penthouse as though the answer ought to be obvious. “I have a vampire girlfriend.” The First Week Anyone who has read DAWN GIRL already knows the broad version of how this happened. Sabrina had been chosen through VamFem three times before she met the vampire who kept her. Three different vampires? “Yes.” Does that make you a Fang Chaser? “No.” How many makes you a Fang Chaser? “Four.” The answer comes so quickly that I almost believe her. “That is absolutely not an official rule,” she says, laughing. “Do not print that as an official rule.” Too late. Readers also know that Sabrina was never formally asked to move in. One night became another. A toothbrush appeared. Then clothes. Then more clothes. Eventually Sabrina realized that almost everything she actually used was in the penthouse while her apartment had become, in her own words, “a very expensive storage unit.” What DAWN GIRL does not explain particularly well is what those first weeks did to her physically. Sabrina smiles when I point this out. “There was a reason I skipped some of that.” Why? “Because the first week nearly killed me.” She sees my expression and raises one hand. “Figuratively. Don’t start.” What happened? “I was exhausted. Completely exhausted. Everything hurt. Muscles I did not know existed hurt. I'd wake up at two in the afternoon, eat enough food for three people, shower, sit down for a minute and wake up again an hour later.” And your girlfriend? “Thought it was adorable.” That sounds irritating. “It was extremely irritating.” But she also took care of you? Her expression changes immediately. “Oh, completely.” Breakfast appeared beside the bed. Fresh fruit. Coffee. Water. Whatever she wanted. If she slept until late afternoon, nobody disturbed her. If she woke sore, there was a bath waiting. If she wanted to spend half the day under the covers watching terrible television, her vampire would climb into bed beside her with a book and remain there until evening. “That part nobody tells you about.” What part? “How gentle they can be afterward.” I remind her that DAWN GIRL famously claims breakfast somehow became her responsibility after she moved in. “Normal breakfast,” Sabrina says. Normal breakfast? “After certain nights, all household rules are suspended.” Including breakfast? “Especially breakfast.” The Bedroom There are no photographs of the bedroom in DAWN GIRL . After seeing it, I understand why describing it probably seemed easier. Sabrina finally allows me to see the room she spent an entire memoir carefully avoiding showing anyone. I expect something dramatic. I am not prepared for that dramatic. The bedroom looks as though somebody handed a vampire an unlimited decorating budget and told her subtlety was forbidden. A massive burgundy velvet bed dominates the room. Black satin. Dark fur throws. Crystal chandeliers. Gold. Candles. A fireplace. More roses. The entire city glowing beyond the windows. I stand in the doorway for several seconds. She watches my reaction and grins. “Now imagine trying to leave that at seven in the morning to go answer emails.” Point taken. Before we leave, something occurs to me. “If this is the bedroom, where is she now?” For the first time during the tour, Sabrina hesitates. Then she glances toward the hallway. There is another door there, black like the walls, almost invisible unless you know to look for it. “She has a private room.” “Is that the room you refused to describe in the book?” Sabrina looks at me. “I did describe it.” “You wrote, ‘There are doors you learn not to open during daylight.’” “Exactly.” Can I see it? “No.” The answer is pleasant but absolute. “Does she sleep in there?” Sabrina smiles. “She rests there during the day.” In a bed? Her smile becomes considerably more amused. “I think there are some things a girlfriend is allowed to keep mysterious.” She takes my arm and gently turns me back toward the living room. I look once more at the unmarked door. I do not ask about coffins. Sabrina does not mention one. Neither of us needs to. Apparently, The Human Body Adapts This is where our conversation begins moving beyond DAWN GIRL . The memoir jokes constantly about exhaustion, late mornings, aching muscles and Sabrina suddenly eating breakfasts intended for several people. It never explains what happened to her body over the following months. Something began changing during the second week. By the third, she noticed stairs becoming easier. By the fourth, clothes fit differently. After two months, friends she had not seen recently began asking for the name of her trainer. “I told one of them she couldn't afford her.” Technically true? “Very.” She says she eats considerably more than she used to, particularly protein, carbohydrates and fruit, yet has never been in better physical condition. “And mentally?” She becomes more thoughtful. “That takes longer.” Why? “Because vampires don't live like we do. They don't hurry because something closes at ten. They don't care that tomorrow is Monday. They don't look at a clock and think, I should probably go to bed.” She leans toward me. “You eventually stop doing that too.” Humans spend their lives organizing everything around tomorrow. Work tomorrow. Appointments tomorrow. Alarm clock tomorrow. Vampires live much more completely in tonight. “When you're permanent, you slowly start living that way too.” Don't Expect To Keep Your Job Readers of DAWN GIRL already know about Sabrina’s spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to preserve a conventional career. The book makes those eleven days very funny. Living through them, apparently, was less amusing. She tried. Eleven days. That was how long her ordinary career survived after she moved in permanently. “She never told me to quit.” She emphasizes that point. “I want that absolutely clear. She would have let me keep working forever if that was what I wanted.” But? “It was insane.” She would finally fall asleep shortly before dawn, wake after two or three hours, shower, drink enough coffee to alarm a cardiologist and go to work. By lunchtime she was useless. By late afternoon she was fantasizing about bed. Then she would arrive home just as her girlfriend was becoming fully awake, beautifully dressed, affectionate and ready to begin the evening. “I remember coming through those doors one night carrying my laptop, wearing office clothes, barely able to stand, and she was sitting right there getting ready.” She points toward the bedroom. “What did she say?” “She looked at me and said, ‘I've been wondering how long you're going to continue this nonsense.’” So you quit. “The next morning.” Do you miss working? “I work.” I raise an eyebrow. She raises hers higher. “Being her girlfriend is my job.” She doesn't say it apologetically. She handles many daytime things her girlfriend prefers not to deal with, schedules appointments, manages travel arrangements, deals with deliveries and household matters, occasionally represents her at meetings scheduled during inconvenient daylight hours, and accompanies her almost everywhere else. There are dinners. Trips. Private events. Long weekends that occasionally become long weeks. And then there is the relationship itself. “People say ‘kept woman’ like it's supposed to insult me.” Does it? “No.” She smiles. “I am extremely well kept.” The Closet Makes Her Point I learn exactly how well kept approximately twenty minutes later. The walk-in closet is larger than my first apartment. One wall is dresses. One wall is shoes. Another contains handbags, coats and drawers I am not permitted to photograph entirely. She opens one. Silk. Lace. Black. Burgundy. I close my notebook. “You have got to be kidding me.” She laughs. “My girlfriend likes shopping.” For you? “For us.” Rows of heels are individually illuminated. Some are elegant. Some are spectacular. Some look physically irresponsible. “How many pairs?” “No idea.” You don't know? “I stopped counting.” I stop in front of a pair of extraordinary black-and-red stilettos that look less like shoes than something commissioned for a museum. Sabrina’s favorite pair. Custom-made specifically for her feet. Price: $192,000 — despite her asking us not to print that. Sabrina notices immediately. “Those are my favorites.” Designer? “Custom.” Custom as in— “One of a kind. Made specifically for my feet.” She lifts one carefully from the shelf and turns it until the ruby detailing catches the light. “You do not want to know what they cost.” Now, obviously, I do. “Promise you won’t print it?” I promise. Sabrina leans closer. “One hundred ninety-two thousand.” I stare at her. “For the pair?” She gives me a look. “Of course for the pair.” I look at the heels again. “And you actually walk in those?” Sabrina smiles. “From the closet to the bed.” I wait. “That’s it?” “Sometimes the sofa.” “So essentially horizontal use only?” She laughs. “Now you’re understanding the investment.” I should probably mention that Sabrina made me promise not to print the price. My editor overruled me. If she is reading this, I am absolutely going to be in trouble. For the record: $192,000. The Woman On The Phone “After an entire memoir about her, you’re really not going to let me meet her?” Sabrina smiles. “She’s asleep.” Photograph? She considers this. “I have one you’re going to like.” Sabrina reaches for her phone, scrolls for several seconds and then turns the screen toward me. The woman looking back at me is breathtaking. Pale skin. Dark hair. Red lips. A teasing smile. Small white fangs visible between them. She is wearing a deep red, very short evening outfit with black lace, one hand beneath her chin, apparently quite pleased with herself. The photograph looks playful rather than threatening. “That was before she went feeding?” “Last week.” She looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Oh, she does.” Sabrina takes the phone back and looks at the photograph herself. “You think she looks good when she leaves.” She pauses. “Then she comes home fed.” Something about the way she says it makes the rest of my question unnecessary. The Jewelry “You barely mentioned any of this in the book.” Sabrina looks around at enough jewelry to stock a small boutique. “Because people were already accusing me of writing a luxury fantasy. Mentioning the jewelry would not have helped.” Fair point. Around her neck is a ruby pendant I noticed the moment I arrived. I ask about it. She touches it automatically. “This was the first serious gift.” Serious? “There had been clothes. Shoes. Little things.” Little things. She notices my expression. “I understand how ridiculous that sentence sounds.” She takes me to another room. Or perhaps part of the dressing suite. By this point the apartment has defeated my sense of geography. A black marble vanity is covered in jewelry. Ruby necklaces. Diamond bracelets. Rings. Earrings. Anklets. Hair ornaments. Several pieces that look as though they belong behind glass in a museum. “All yours?” “Mostly.” Mostly? “Some are hers.” Which? She points toward an extraordinary necklace of rubies and diamonds. “That one.” You've worn it? “Once.” Why only once? She looks at me as though I have asked something silly. “I couldn't turn my head comfortably.” Fair enough. The Nights She Feeds There is one subject every permanent girlfriend learns to recognize without asking. Feeding night. “How do you know?” “The clothes.” That's all? “Oh, you know.” Her girlfriend dresses differently when she intends to feed. Stronger makeup. Higher heels. A shorter dress. The unmistakable appearance of a beautiful woman intending to be noticed by exactly the sort of man who believes he has just become extraordinarily lucky. “She looks spectacular.” Are you jealous? “No.” Never? “The first time felt strange.” Because she's going out looking for a man. “She isn't going out looking for a man.” Her response is immediate. “She's going out for dinner.” She lets that sit between us. “That distinction matters.” Her girlfriend usually leaves around midnight. She returns approximately two hours later. And that, apparently, is when the real difference between ordinary nights and feeding nights becomes apparent. “What changes?” She smiles. Then actually blushes. For the first time all evening, this polished, confident woman looks almost shy. “You aren't printing my answer to that.” Try me. “No.” More energy? She laughs. “Considerably.” How considerably? She looks toward the windows. “Do you have another question?” That considerably? She meets my eyes again. “Yes.” Never Schedule Brunch After Feeding Night Eventually she gives me something printable. “If she comes home at two after feeding, I know I'm not making lunch plans.” Breakfast? She laughs. “Absolutely not.” Those are still the hardest nights physically, even after nearly a year. The vampire returns exhilarated, intensely alert and overflowing with an energy her human partner can barely comprehend, much less match. “You think you've adjusted. Then one of those nights happens and your body reminds you very firmly that one of you is human.” How late can the night go? She gives me another look. “Sunrise is not necessarily the end.” Six hours? “Next question.” The following day is essentially cancelled. No appointments. No shopping. No lunches. Sometimes barely any walking. “I've had days where I wake up and seriously consider whether getting out of bed is an unreasonable expectation.” And your girlfriend? “Perfect.” Again, there is no hesitation. She brings food upstairs. Makes sure her girlfriend drinks enough water. Prepares the bath. Rubs tired shoulders and aching legs. Changes the sheets. Closes the curtains and climbs into bed beside her. Sometimes they sleep. Sometimes the vampire reads while the human sleeps against her. “She can be almost unbearably sweet the next day.” Almost? “You forgive a lot when someone brings pancakes to bed.” Then Why Look Forward To It? This is the question that changes her. Until now she has been funny, relaxed, teasing, occasionally careful. Now she goes quiet. “Because you cannot explain those nights.” She pauses. “They're exhausting. They're ridiculous. The next day I feel as though every muscle in my body has filed a formal complaint.” She smiles, but only briefly. “And I wouldn't give them up.” Why? “Because afterward she's so alive.” Another pause. “And because I'm the person she comes home to.” There it is. Not the penthouse. Not the closet. Not the jewelry. Not the impossible shoes. Not the unbelievable stories whispered among VamFem Regulars. She looks at me and suddenly the joking term Dawn Girl doesn't seem silly at all. “She could have almost anyone,” she says quietly. “That's something you understand very clearly when you're with one of them. People look at her everywhere we go. Women stare. Men stare. Sometimes I stare.” Yet she comes home. “Yes.” To you. “To me.” Permanent Doesn't Mean Easy “After writing an entire book called How One Night Became Forever , do you actually recommend forever?” “No.” The answer surprises me. Why not? “Because you shouldn't want a vampire . You should want your vampire .” She knew women on VamFem whose entire ambition was becoming permanent. They treated every selection as an audition. Every vampire as a possible route out of ordinary life. She thinks that is backwards. “The permanent part happens because one of them doesn't want the night to end either.” And if it doesn't happen? “Then enjoy the night.” Spoken like a former Regular. “Three times.” Still insisting four is the cutoff? “Absolutely.” It's Almost Time A little after nine, something changes. Not in the penthouse. In Sabrina. For almost three hours she has been author, interview subject, tour guide and occasionally gleeful saboteur of her own carefully maintained privacy. Now she becomes something else. A woman waiting for her girlfriend to wake up. She checks her phone. Looks toward the dark hallway and, very briefly, toward the black door she would not let me open. Runs one hand through her hair. Her posture becomes straighter. There is suddenly something almost girlish beneath the sophisticated dress and expensive jewelry. I ask whether everything is all right. “Perfect.” Another glance at the time. Then she smiles. “I should probably throw you out.” That's remarkably polite. “I can be less polite.” Why the sudden rush? “She'll be waking up.” I look instinctively toward the bedroom. “Soon?” “Very soon.” Dinner reservation? “No.” Event? “No.” Feeding night? Her smile widens. “Not tonight.” And somehow those two words contain more anticipation than anything else she has said during the entire interview. She stands. Then kicks off her heels. That surprises me. “Those aren't for tonight?” She looks down at them. “Oh, no.” What is? She glances toward the enormous closet. “That requires preparation.” How much preparation? She thinks about it. “About an hour.” For staying home? She laughs. “You've seen the bedroom.” Fair point. She walks me toward the elevator, barefoot now, carrying the heels in one hand. The polished woman I met several hours earlier is disappearing before my eyes. She is excited. Not theatrically. Genuinely. She presses the elevator button. “So what happens after I leave?” She smiles. “I shower.” Then? “Hair.” Then? “Makeup.” Then? She glances over her shoulder toward the closet. “I choose something she'll like.” And then? The elevator doors open. She gives me one last grin. “Then my girlfriend wakes up.” The doors begin to close. I stop them with one final question. “And tomorrow?” She laughs. “Don't call before three.” The doors begin to close. Eleven months ago, Sabrina Vale wrote that nobody properly explains what happens when the vampire keeps you. Watching her check the time, smooth her dress and glance once more toward that dark hallway, I suspect the answer was never going to fit neatly into a memoir. The doors close. And somewhere several hundred feet above the city, Sabrina Vale begins getting ready for work.