More Than A Woman

Image credit: DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES: DANNY FELD

Huffman wasn't surprised by the inevitable backlash that started dogging the women on Desperate Housewives. ''They were waiting for us to fight before we started airing,'' she shrugs. ''If five guys were on a series, you'd never hear bulls--- like that. But we all know how lucky we are and we don't want to do anything to screw it up.'' Fellow Housewife Cross remembers crying in the bathroom after the cast did their first Oprah appearance. ''I was just feeling insecure and nervous and exposed,'' she says. ''And Felicity came in and put her arms around me in that strong way of hers.'' Doug Savant, who plays Huffman's husband on the show, applauds his costar's grace under pressure. ''When we first started, everyone had their own agendas and was worried about their own careers moving forward,'' he says. ''But Felicity has been a uniting force among the women. She's the ultimate team player, saying 'Hey, we're a group so let's communicate and exist as a group.'''

The only real problem with network success is the increased red-carpet demands. ''I always feel like someone's gonna come up and go, 'Who the hell do you think you are?! You're not pretty or glamorous or thin!''' says Huffman. ''The costume designer on Desperate Housewives turned to me last year after a couple of awards shows and said, 'Dahling, it looks like you start out very much in pain and then very quickly it looks like you're angry and cranky on the carpet.' And I was like, 'Well, I feel like a fraud.' And she said, 'Just pretend you're in a Shakespearean play and you're the Queen. Just waltz out there!'''

Decked out in a clingy pink satin dress, Huffman waltzed up to accept the best-actress award at this year's Emmys. In a breathless, charming speech, she thanked her husband ''for taking a chunky 22-year-old with a bad perm and glasses out into a cow pasture and kissing me and making me his wife.'' Macy, mouth agape in stunned pride, looked on adoringly. ''I think the actor in me was thinking, C'mon babe, you can do this, make it a good one, keep your wits about you,'' he remembers. ''I didn't know what she was going to say, and it floored me. This magnificent year that she's having is not a fluke at all. Felicity's been doing quality work for a long, long time and she's got chops.''

There's a child's car seat in the back of Huffman's cluttered black Audi, and an Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt, and Dolly Parton CD cranked up loud on the stereo. She needs to be home in an hour to gussy up for another Transamerica event (''I'd go to the opening of an envelope of this movie!''), but she insists that it's no trouble to take a detour and drop me off at a friend's apartment in Burbank. When it quickly becomes clear that the hotel valet's directions to the highway might not have been the best, she calls home to warn that she's running behind schedule. (''That's Felicity,'' laughs Macy later. ''Generous, lost, and late.'')

At stoplights, Huffman rolls down her window and waves her hands in the air, bleating at oblivious strangers talking on cell phones in their sealed-up cars. ''Excuse me! Excuse me! Is this the way to Alhambra Street?!'' Over and over, well-intentioned people who have no idea they're talking to a star point her in the wrong direction. After turning in circles for what seems like forever, she decides to trust her own instincts. ''This better be right,'' she bellows good-naturedly, ''or I'm going to shoot myself in the head!'' And there, at the crest of a long hill, is the green beacon for the highway. Having finally found her way, she gives a whoop, and floors it.