It began simply enough. I was laid off from a syndicated television talk show, a blessing disguised as a reorganization. I’d started collecting unemployment and bartending under-the-table at a cocktail bar near my Hell’s Kitchen apartment when, one afternoon, my former manager called. His colleague represented an actress; would I be interested in assisting her a few days a week?

Days later, my Motorola flip phone rang, displaying an anonymous number. This was 2006, a time when no one questioned picking up the phone. I had been experimenting with mixing cosmos—the namesake of the aforementioned bar—and drinking my mistakes.

“Hello, Sarah? This is Angela Lansbury,” came the voice on the line. Then came an exuberant laugh. Angela Lansbury—a woman whose career I scarcely knew beyond my grand

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