You can post your profile, use advanced search, send and receive messages absolutely free.
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.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.Scroll down for more..."This is lovely," she tells me. Her blue eyes freeze and she removes her hand from my arm. She tells me: "I find myself very good-looking."She is proud of her curves - "Men are not dogs, they don't like bones" - and long legs. She's been in England since her parents sent her to boarding school at the age of 15."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 meal costs an arm and a leg - the best part of £200.
Ludmila does not bat an eyelid and she has no plans on going dutch.
I wonder when the last time was that she paid for anything.
I drop her off in the taxi, and the next morning she sends me a text message telling me she had a nice time. These gals will happily accede to a request for a date from any man who looks loaded.
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.
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.