Marriage women gold diggers dating
Forget GSOH, it turns out that ‘index-linked pension’ is the sexiest phrase you can write on a dating profile.Well, it won’t surprise you to learn that the last thing I’m looking for is someone who’s going to spend my hard-earned cash for me, while I pour him my finest Veuve Clicquot champagne and massage his feet with my Crème de la Mer. We get more vulnerable as we get older; we want to trust the man who flatters us, even though experience tells us this might be too good to be true (and it usually is). Over the years, I’ve had a number of encounters with midlife male gold diggers. Over a slice of pizza, ‘Jack’ asked me, out of the blue, if I owned a property in Italy.With an exquisitely manicured finger, she points to a diamond encrusted wristwatch. The truth is I am not a City high-flyer and not even a plumber. After all, she was there to find a suitable man - and I was there to find a suitable woman. She adores nightclubs and giggles about getting in free on account of her uscule skirts.
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."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. She is stunningly beautiful, elegant, and with a figure that a movie star would die for. Sleek women of uncertain backgrounds dance round their handbags, and I can hear the murmur of Slavic accents. She's wearing something blue and filmy that shouts money. It's called Pangaea and it's popular with visiting Russians and the younger members of the Royal Family.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.