The first time I met Angela Lansbury, she shook my hand and then held her arm out expectantly in the doorway to her hotel room. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Hug her? Her husband, Peter Shaw, had opened the door, welcomed me, and was in the kitchenette seeing to tea. I finally figured out what she was waiting for: me to give her my coat and scarf.
It was winter 1977 in Hartford, where she was appearing in two short Edward Albee plays called “Counting the Ways” and “Listening,” and I had written a letter offering advice on possible sights to see in my hometown. She had responded by inviting me to tea. She had no reason to reply, let alone invite me: I was a nobody, with no names to drop. But she remembered what it was like to be young and on the outside.
