Marriage women gold diggers dating
Emotional blackmail is one of Mr Gold Digger’s tools.He wants you weeping into a hanky and saying: ‘Poor darling, how can I help?What I want is an equal — a partner who is solvent and brings assets and life experience of his own. When I asked why, he told me: ‘Because I want to live in Italy, but can’t afford to.’ In that instant, his motives became dazzlingly clear.Then there was Tony the builder: public school pedigree, substantial properties in Dorset, silk shirts, cashmere coats et al.
I've known her for four hours and we have just had a bottle of champagne that cost me £200. There's plenty of talk around the place about Rapacious Russians and Slavic Sirens stalking our streets in search of men - and men with money, at that. "There's a lot of Eastern Europeans in tonight," I say to the barman. Every night is Russian night." It is 2.37am when I find what I've been looking for. She doesn't want to eat because she's worried about her figure, but she does want to drink. My jaw drops, but I have to remember this is her world. She tells me that though she's from Moscow, she holidays in Mustique and Monaco and loves Prada. This is where Prince Harry took it upon himself to lash out at a photographer, so I know it must be a classy joint. We sit with two other Russian girls and Natalia demands I buy more champagne - which leaves me £150 less well off (not that I was well off anyway). Unfortunately, much of it is in Russian and I'm beginning to feel my function is merely to pick up the bill. Does Natalia see all men - me included - as cash cows? I feel a little let down by Natalia's commercial approach and decide it's wise - if only for the sake of my bank manager's sanity - that we don't see each other again. Next day, I head west to Chelsea, home of the ultimate oligarch, Roman Abramovich. Once I'm fairly sure the girl is Russian (normally by eavesdropping on her conversations), I sidle over and make lighthearted small-talk to assess the situation.I more or less carry it off - and adjust my mental stereotype of a Muscovite moll.It's an enjoyable evening, and oddly I don't feel she is one of the Russianistas seeking wealth above all else.As the evening goes on, it turns out Svetlana thinks Disney World in Florida is another of the seven wonders of the world. I steer the conversation away from the Millennium Wheel, the Dome of St Paul's and Big Ben... "Yes, because if you were a blonde and dyed your hair brunette, how would that make a difference? "There are even people who think blondes are stupid," she laughs, shaking her golden hair in delight. Svetlana tells me that an ex-boyfriend bought her a convertible Mini. I have a fun evening with Svetlana, but it is obvious that my most important charm (apart from my tolerance of endless discussion of hair colour) is what she believes to be my wealth. She is doing her final practical training to become a pathologist.Svetlana turns her attention to hair colour and asks me if I think brunettes are more intelligent than blondes. That's what she's looking for - and she'll find it, because she's determined to. In a hotel bar near Hyde Park Corner, I find Ludmila. I watch in awe as she expertly dissects her rare steak.
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A good-looking artist, he was recovering from a marriage break-up. Bless him, I thought, he had at least made an effort. Perhaps he was having temporary financial difficulties post-divorce, with grown-up kids to support. While I was making do with last year’s fun-fur, here was he looking like a million dollars. A few months later, I found out he had been a kept man, indulged by his high-earning wife.