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"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.
And she doesn't live in Kensington, near all her Russian friends, and is angry about it. After a moment she puts it down and says: "There is nothing I wish to eat on this card." "Nothing at all? "Nothing." I mentally shrug and go over to the maitre d' and explain discreetly: "I'm very sorry but something's come up and we have to leave." At this point, Oxana joins us. It had become clear to me that I had only scratched the surface - that there are thousands, maybe tens of thousands out there, looking for a rich British date.
But let me offer a word of warning to over-sexed Englishmen hoping for an easy catch and quick escape. Nor are they one-night escorts in search of a smart restaurant, champagne and a taxi home.
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.
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