The Woman Who Wanted To Be Funny

Katie dreamed of entertaining like a comedian, but life in the kitchen got in the way, until she met the Coach, a man her husband hated...

Prologue 

Eyebrows are the side dish of a face, not the main.

I was sitting in the dressing room avoiding Felicity, the so-called makeup lady. She has a way of putting on makeup that makes anyone look like a drunk Bette Davies.

She has a thing for eyebrows, claims they’re the “handle of the face” and “should be seen” — like a mile away — at least!

Pete thought it was hilarious when I arrived home with my “war paint”.

“Me big chief Indian,” he said, ignoring my PC comment.

I told him she had buggered up my face during the dress rehearsal, that it had taken half a packet of wet wipes to get to this “big chief Indian” half removed look, and did he listen? He poured me a dram, kissed my head, and returned to watching Sky Sports.

Felicity has just completed an advanced-stage makeup course that involved a mountain of brushes and a suitcase of pots. There I was, one foot in my Dick Whittington boots when she grabbed me, and with a “sit” horsed me into a chair. I watched her spread her tool kit across the table, hoping for a facial miracle… a Jane Fonda or… Helen Mirren look?

I should have known better when I saw Fairy Bowbells dive out the door.

Felicity’s ability to ruin a face, it seemed, was legendary. She spent what seemed an eternity working contours on my round face until Kenny, the director, bounded in, flicked on the kettle, glared at the array of brushes and pots and huffed…

“Is all that absolutely necessary?”

Felicity threw him a look, the sort only a sister could get away with. “I am practicing my new skills,” she said.

“Practising,” I stuttered. “I thought you knew what you were doing.”

“Keep still,” hissed Felicity, grabbing my jaw.

Kenny, a retired plumber, is a no-frills sort of guy. He directs like he’s sorting a toilet like there’s a solution for everything, or “a washer for every occasion” which he often yells when faced with scenery, budget, or wardrobe problems. And the only one who ignores him is his artistically frustrated way younger sister, Felicity.

“Now for a few eyelashes,” her tweezers loomed closer.

“There’s no need,” I stuttered. “It’s only a dress rehearsal.”

“Yes, but we must practice.”

“But I’ve never worn false eyelashes…” I lied. I had once, and it was a nightmare of watery eyes and itching.

“Just keep still,” she hissed, brushing away my protests.

The dress rehearsal was a blur of teary eyes, and I was halfway through the first scene when I clocked my face in the stage mirror. A single eyebrow stretched across my forehead, screaming: this woman needs “Nair, but she don’t care”.

Felicity paints abstract art in her spare time, the sort that no one knows which way up to hang, and when I clocked my face, I wondered the same thing. My eyebrows — sorry eyebrow looked like a cartoon caterpillar with postmortem rigidity. Thank god it was the dress rehearsal. The audience was the janitor waiting for a cataract operation and three women from the WRI who were more interested in arranging chairs than me.

I learned to avoid friggin’ Felicity after that.

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