I usually tried to keep work separate from my private life, particularly after John Dodd (the attempted rape), but sometimes opportunities arise and it would be foolish to miss them. One of those opportunities was Graham Sweetman. God, he was gorgeous. Six feet tall, stunning blonde hair which seemed to swirl around his head, eyes as blue as the ocean, cute nose, wonderful skin, rosy large lips, strong chin, muscular in the Connery sense of the word, slim, carried himself straight and moved like a dancer. Always immaculately dressed in light grey, blue or beige suits. There was no other word to describe him other than beautiful. Simply beautiful from top to toe.
On this particular day in May 1974, I had just finished translating a tricky agreement into mandarin and walked to the copier to make my own personal copy. I kept these until I knew they had reached company as, on one occasion, I had a document get lost and wanted to ensure it never happened again.
I was just copying the last page when this heartthrob walked up to me and said, “Angela, can I get a word?”
I turned to face him. His tie was blue, his waistcoat buttoned, handkerchief in his top pocket, his beard shadow just appearing in the late afternoon. Stunning.
“I was just wondering if you might be free for dinner on Saturday?”
“Sounds nice. Where are you thinking of?” I asked, not really giving a damn where we were going. I couldn’t believe this amazingly handsome man wanted to date me.