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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.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?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.
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.
I’ve worked hard all my life, dabbled in property development and was left a little money by my family, so I have enough money for retirement.
I also have the crème de la crème of pensions — one that’s protected from inflation, so I know I’ll always get the handsome sum I get now.
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.