My Time With Angela Lansbury

It all started innocently enough when I was laid off from a television talk show, a blessing in disguise brought on by a corporate restructuring. As I began to collect unemployment while bartending at a nearby cocktail bar in Hell’s Kitchen, my former manager reached out one afternoon. His associate represented an actress and wanted to know if I was interested in assisting her a few days a week.

Not long after, my Motorola flip phone buzzed with an anonymous call. It was 2006—a time when people didn’t hesitate to pick up unfamiliar numbers. I had been testing out various cocktail recipes, mixing cosmos at the bar and sampling my own handiwork.

“Hello, is this Sarah? It’s Angela Lansbury,” a warm voice greeted me, followed by her unmistakable laughter. Angela Lansbury—a star whose career I knew only from Sunday nights spent with my grandmother watching television—conversed with me as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. There I was, a lost, broke, 24-year-old in my tiny apartment, slightly tipsy and captivated by the lulling voice of an iconic actress.

Angela was preparing for her debut in Deuce, a play by Terrance McNally about two retired tennis legends, set to perform at the Music Box Theatre. She was looking for someone to aid her with everyday tasks: setting up her new apartment in Manhattan, joining her for interviews and events, organizing her schedule. Not only was her return to the city significant for her, but it turned out to be monumental for me as well.

That first call led to an invitation for afternoon tea, which swiftly evolved into a formal job offer. What commenced as a job developed into a shopping companion, a lunchtime date, a source of wisdom, a travel partner, and an enduring friendship spanning nearly two decades.

***

When Angela entered my life, I was merely twenty-four, a Cranston, Rhode Island, native grappling with the challenges of New York City. After narrowly escaping the 9/11 attacks while living in a dorm just blocks away from Ground Zero, I had been working for Maury Povich’s production company and moonlighting as a producer for a comedy show, which was more about cheap gin and unwanted advances than glitz and glamour. My social circles were constantly shifting as friends migrated towards quieter lives, leaving me furious and insecure, yearning for fulfillment while feeling disillusioned about my life choices.

Angela invited me into her Midtown apartment—a former hotel turned luxury condominiums. Her space was a quaint pied-à-terre adorned with pristine white walls, showcasing stunning artwork by her sister-in-law, Louise Lansbury; a walnut dining table with downfolded leaves; and a cozy cream couch resting beside a glass door leading to the balcony. While the place was sparse as it was not her primary residence, it emanated a homely charm.

Though my daily tasks might not have been prestigious, the feeling of the job was impressive. Suddenly, I had a spark of excitement in my life, even if it sometimes consisted of simply pushing a cart through Gristedes alongside Auntie Mame.

I often recall the serene mornings in Angela’s apartment, just before she would emerge from her bedroom to commence our day. The air was always lightly scented with her favorite Jo Malone perfume—Red Roses—or perhaps with actual roses she had brought home after a theater performance. These moments were peaceful, bright, and inviting, where I spent my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., off and on for years.

Every day unfolded with a familiar routine. I’d unlock her door, toss my coat and purse over the back of a desk chair upholstered in a red floral pattern we had discovered at Gracious Home, and she’d call out from her bedroom, “Push the button, darling!” She typically preferred tea but had already prepped the coffee maker to brew exactly two cups for me—just the push of a button was needed upon my arrival.

As the clock struck 3, she’d suggest, “Shall we have a cuppa?” One of us would boil the kettle, adding two bags of Barry’s Gold tea to her cherished old teapot. More often than not, she had some delightful treat to accompany our tea, perhaps a chocolate digestive from McVitie’s or a “delicious something” she had picked up the day before. “What will it be?” she’d ask, presenting a plate of assorted cookies.

After our tea, we would sit and chat until Angela would signal it was nearly time for me to go home. “It’s getting late, my dear. Time to ride your horse.” It was always before 4 p.m.

As I gathered my belongings, slinging my purse over my shoulder, she would hand me my hat and gloves while singing, “Be careful crossing streets, ooh, ooh. Don’t eat sweets, ooh, ooh.” With a gentle nudge, she’d send me on my way, her lovely voice echoing down the hallway.

My time with Angela hardly felt like work; it was more akin to spending time with a beloved theater aunt. I was excited about RSVPing for events I seldom attended, dropping off dry cleaning, sending grocery orders via fax, or sorting through fan mail. The fan mail was particularly rewarding—heartfelt letters from individuals expressing how she inspired them. I was intrigued by the quirky letters, like one where actor Tom Bosley was referenced a staggering forty-seven times before requesting her autograph. I filtered through the genuine messages and, once a week at her dining table, she would sit down to respond to each one.

A stack of 8”x10” headshots resided in the middle drawer of her credenza, which she would sign with notes like: For Neil, Love, Angela Lansbury xx. Happy birthday, Caitlin! Love, Angela Lansbury xx. If a letter warranted it, she’d craft a brief yet meaningful response on blue Original Crown Mill stationery, expressing her appreciation for their thoughtfulness.

Many New Yorkers misinterpret bluntness as a necessity for success. Yet, from my perspective, Angela’s guiding principle was kindness, whether she was answering correspondence, welcoming aspiring actors at her dressing room door, or shaking hands with a Duane Reade cashier who adored Murder, She Wrote. Between shows of A Little Night Music, she even hosted my mother for tea and cookies in her dressing room, enthusiastically sharing updates about me. Being around her transformed me from a

lost

director into a young woman who sat up straighter, penned timely thank-you notes, and resonated a more positive energy into the universe.

I dabbled in performing during my free time, and Angela’s occasional words of encouragement pushed me forward. In 2012, Access Talent, a voiceover agency based in New York, added me to their roster. On the way to my first-ever audition, anxiety gripped me, but Angela reassured me: “You’re talented, so don’t overthink it—just be yourself.” With her faith in me, I stepped out brimming with confidence.

***

In the early months of working with Angela, I met Jon, embarking on the first chapter of a long relationship. We enjoyed a few months together until I called it off one day at Le Pain Quotidien, suggesting we might be better off as friends. The following morning, while hunting for tinned sardines at Ernest Klein’s, she asked what was wrong with her girl.

Feeling foolish, I wiped away tears next to the salad bar with my mentor present. But she took my hand in hers and said, “Don’t fret, my dear. There’s always something waiting just around the bend.” And she was indeed right; Jon unexpectedly reentered my life weeks later.

Before tying the knot, Jon and I decided to visit Dublin. “I’ll be in Cork!” Angela exclaimed, inviting us to her home. We excitedly accepted, and she welcomed us at the bus station, driving us to her picturesque house, which featured a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean from her expansive backyard. While wandering her lawn, Jon and I exchanged glances, marveling at how surreal the trip had turned out.

We spent three unforgettable nights at her Irish farmhouse, playing ping pong with her neighbors and enjoying afternoon tea with her friends. Angela pampered us with meals, refusing to let us lift a finger—making scrambled eggs with a whisk and a pat of butter, grilled tomatoes topped with salt and pepper, and delicious brown bread, alongside coffee and tea. She also prepared simple salads with lovage from her garden, dressed with a homemade vinaigrette in an olive oil bottle.

Before we departed, Angela insisted we leave her home with clean clothes. When she called out to Jon near her laundry room, he jumped, fearing she had fallen. Only to find her kneeling before the dryer, holding spaceship-printed fabric between her fingers. “Darling,” she asked, “do these feel dry to you?!” To quote Jon, “There’s Angela effin’ Lansbury holding my boxers.”

Shortly afterward, she received an invitation to tour Australia for six months in Driving Miss Daisy alongside the incomparable James Earl Jones and the delightful Boyd Gaines. By this time, I had been married for only 18 months, and taking me along to the other side of the world simply wasn’t possible in her eyes. “Darling, I couldn’t possibly take you away from your Jon,” she insisted, stating her wardrobe dresser was far better suited for the task, while I was simply her source of joy.

Yet one afternoon, while washing dishes in her galley kitchen, I quietly rehearsed the request I was about to make, summoning courage like never before. I walked toward the dining table where she sat, took her hands in mine, and declared, “Angie, I want to join you in Australia.” Brilliant delivery, right?

Her gaze lingered on me for a second, probably pondering my sanity, before exclaiming, “Okay, kid! You’ve got yourself a deal!” And thus, an adventure was born.

Leading up to the Australian tour, we enjoyed massive shopping sprees. While visiting Bloomingdale’s one spring day, we rifled through fabrics until she found a beautiful pearl raincoat for her daughter, Deirdre, and insisted I pick one as well. I chose a classic black one that fit perfectly. “Lovely! Then, it shall be yours!” she announced, gifting it to me without hesitation.

“Thank you! This is one of the finest things I’ve ever owned,” I told her, genuinely touched.

“You’re one of the finest things I’ve ever had,” she replied, linking her arm through mine.

The Australian trip itself was pure magic. Like an updated version of The Odd Couple, Angela and I became roommates in lavish hotel suites throughout Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, Adelaide, and Perth for six months. We shared breakfast of coffee and eggs or muesli each morning, and every Sunday after her performance, we’d snuggle up to watch Downton Abbey, indulging in Magnum ice cream bars while clad in our pajamas. On days when the theater was dark, we explored our surroundings. Each city visit began by reaching out to her contacts, and in Sydney, we connected with her distant cousin Malcolm Turnbull, who would later take on the role of Australia’s prime minister. He and his wife, Lucy Turnbull, former mayor of Sydney, graciously invited us to their magnificent home overlooking the Sydney Harbour for dinner. “We invited Cate, but she’s out of town,” Lucy mentioned casually. Yes, dear reader, that Cate was none other than Cate Blanchett.