Marriage women gold diggers dating
One night, shortly after we’d met, he insisted on sharing a taxi home. He could afford all the fine dining because he did occasional consultancy for a famous hotel chain, so he never had to put his hand in his pocket when we went out. When you suggest a discount-voucher dinner date, he looks deeply disappointed.
When I asked to be dropped on the corner of my street, he gallantly said he’d escort me to my door. Then I realised he wasn’t looking into my eyes but surveying my property. He tells sob stories about his deprived childhood/unkind ex-wife who took him to the cleaners/employer who unfairly axed him — and sometimes uses all these excuses together.
But you would be surprised how many men I’ve met who have made little or no provision for later life.
And to men who have been less financially prudent, such a pension is deeply alluring.
"Will you buy it for me when the shop opens tomorrow? As she sips her chilled Vodka Martini she tells me she wants to see more of the world, travellingfirst class. "Venice is one of the seven wonders of the world," she informs me. We go to a restaurant and she suggests we drink straight vodka.
The following evening I'm in a five-star hotel in Mayfair - her choice of meeting point. High heels echo over the marble floor and Natalia enters, her Slavic cheekbones accentuatedby her tiedback hair. Natalia wants us to meet her friends at a nightclub.
He wants you weeping into a hanky and saying: ‘Poor darling, how can I help?
Now we're strolling down Old Bond Street in London. If they exist, they are a glittering army of clever, glamorous, ambitious, sophisticated vamps, descending, locust-like on London, the world's leading financial centre, in a mad search for merchant bankers, commodity traders and City bonus - pocketers. To find out, I would romance the Russianistas, uncover the Ukrainians, and leave no Estonian unturned. I shall adopt the persona of a wealthy young man-about-town. It is 4.23am when Natalia and I leave, together, and she sees the wristwatch - £33,000-worth of antique gold, silver and precious stones - in the shop window. There seem to be more Russians in Chelsea than were at the Siege of Stalingrad. I'm pretending to be working on my laptop in a bar when I hear the now unmistakable sound of Russian being spoken. Favoured topics of conversation would be the barman, for example, the bar or the club.
She pauses at a jewellery shop and stares in the window. It all started a few weeks earlier when I heard that Britain is under siege from a monstrous regiment of Russian temptresses - arriving here on the billionaire coat tails of Roman Abramovich and his fabulouslywealthy friends, and set on grabbing a British boyfriend, a British expense account and a British passport. Not wanting to be caught out by elaborate lies, I tell anyone who asks that I inherited my money and amuse myself by writing screenplays. I resolve to spend money I don't have as if there's no tomorrow - and keep a diary that may go some way to keeping me. They haunt stylish bars, ostentatious restaurants and swanky hotels. Continuing a conversation with an available Russianista from there on isn't difficult. (I'm 6ft 1in and she towers over me.) She's from St Petersburg, she tells me, and is 24.
Then I found out the trappings of wealth had been acquired before his financial downfall — and the properties in Dorset were long gone. You must also beware the ex who returns out of the blue.
A few years ago, a boyfriend I’d dated in my 30s got in touch. And to add finesse to our evening at an unlicensed kebab shop, he brought along two bottles of lager and a bunch of price-reduced petrol-station flowers.