THE ROAR OF THE
GREASEPAINT
Lucy was just nineteen and ripe for plucking when the
actor stayed at her aunt’s boarding house. After a week of stories about his
glamorous world, she packed her bags and followed him.
But scrubbing greasepaint from his collars wasn’t glamorous,
and the thrill of being backstage soon wore thin. She wasn’t even good enough
at sewing to help the wardrobe mistress.
When she caught him kissing his leading lady, she got
a bus home and married the boy she’d left behind.
He was a much better father
to her child than the actor would ever have been.
..................................................................................................
In the midst of preparing for publication Landslide, the third book in my Living Rock series, I've taken a break to write this week's 100 words.
My first husband had just dipped his toe into the world of amateur dramatics when we met, and twenty years later the 'roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd' tempted him to turn professional. I still remember scrubbing the collar of his one white shirt and drying it on a radiator overnight for the next performance!
Thanks to Dale Rogerson for her evocative photo, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog, https://rochellewisoff.com/
