© Anna Polosina, 2016

© “U Nikitskikh vorot”, design, 2016

Chapter 1. Preview

When did I get the idea to write this book sharing my rich experience infiltrating London Introduction agencies? About a year ago. I cannot say it was a treat to write. Not quite. Fact was, even I couldn’t figure out what on earth I was writing it for.

The budget of the book inspires awe. It equals the cost of a good car, no more, no less. Even a premium car, sort of. An inquiring reader could ask: why the agencies of London? Because, in my late 30s and early 40s, I tried to use everything I had to my advantage. Men on the Moscow market looked to me all like the boys from the History of Literature or Liberal Arts department of University, where every representative of the masculine gender is valued much higher than his market price. You know any man feels like a good catch in the conditions where the supply is constantly shorter than the demand and competition is far behind. But should you cross the road, you will find yourself at the Physics Department, where the demand will sharply reverse and the most average girl from the Liberal Arts Department will get more than her fair value of male attention and even adoration. But this is exactly what we are looking for! Just as that average girl from the Liberal Arts Department, I turned myself to the equivalent of Physics department, to look for my share of womanly happiness with subsequent capitalization.

This long and winding road first brought me to the dating Agency specializing in fair business, then to an Agency featuring not enough paid members, then, by my pure carelessness, to another circle of this forlorn Agency which by then was absolutely deserted, then to an Almost Ideal Agency and, last of all, to the Most Expensive Agency. If I look back at the costs, my least fortunate investment turned out to be the second round at Agency with Almost No Members. But what characters did it put on my way!

The Young Granddad of 53 was the first to open the door to the world of introduction agencies. What did he tell me? Not to show the best picture but stick by the plain one, because this way the date is programmed to trade up. The Granddad was handsome enough, but I tagged him as “Fat Face” (undeservedly) at the first glance of his picture. To find the exact girl he wanted, he had to meet 50 or 60 damsels in 6 months, according to the statistics he explained to me. Some encounters only lasted 15 minutes. He preferred to set their trysts in Starbucks, appreciating the coffee shop for its concept of inexpensive self-service. Young Granddad froze his membership and, having lived together with some lucky girl for four years, got back on the single market, with many dates ahead. But the Granddad was unabashed. He had a timber and furniture business, having begun as a carpenter, and was used to hard and heavy work. When I told him my plans to find a suitable man in just ten dates, he was openly skeptical. I forgot to ask him if his lucky chosen one retrieved her frozen membership or if she had to pay for it again. Our date lasted a couple of hours, then Yana came to join us. Not thinking it proper to pay for my friend’s wine, Granddad withdrew, and I found his tea in my bill, which was oddly logical. Granddad was a clever cookie, I readily shared his lessons with my comrades on the hunt for love, or for a diamond in the dust, as I sometimes put it. I should note that he was the only man I met who considered the result of this game as his clear goal, and the process or hunt, as work.

If I forgo mentioning one or two insignificant and not particularly eager suitors, the next one to appear on the horizon was Baldie.

Baldie was a youngish-looking country gentleman from the North. From Norfolk. Not overly burdened with knowledge, education, working or personal experience, he was naïve as a child in all matters, except the prices in the shops on both sides of Bond Street and of the real estate in Mayfair, and was very wary of womankind’s supposed desire to use him and their overall greed. One could assume that Baldie was acting based on the motives of Supreme Justice, trying to hunt out the most profiteering specimens. Otherwise, why would he mention, in his resume, greater wealth than he really possessed? No doubt, to discover and catch the gold digger, and then put her to shame? I don’t know. He was moderately generous, proudly respectable, and outrageously dull.

He also was in love with the attributes of luxurious living that he could afford. He unashamedly loved those that were out of his reach, as well. To satisfy his passion, he needed money. After roving the seas between three Greek islands on a yacht for some ten years, and squandering the best part of his inheritance, Baldie, who turned 44 by then, decided to become a developer and turn to installing bungalows with all modern conveniences, in Norfolk countryside. Their prices ranged from 300 to 500 thousand pounds. His enterprise was destined for well-to-do retired people, tired of London, longing to sell real estate in the capital and settle in an unpretentious bungalow. Like in the Russian ad: “Tired of living on the Moscow Golden Mile? Go to South Butovo!” Baldie’s scheme was like it, but it was a serious business. What I didn’t know before was that a bungalow differs from a cottage, having no porch, and possibly even no basement. They looked pretty miserable. I was not impressed, and neither were the senior citizens, I suppose. I never saw one of them there.

But Hope was high with Baldie, and his plans bathed in its diamond light. He dreamed of buying a flat in Belgravia, of seeing the sights of Japan, of making a car tour in the South of France with Louis Vuitton suitcases. It was pathetic, I admit. But Baldie’s fatal mistake was introducing new girls to the Carrot King.

Oh yes, the Carrot King was Baldie’s mistake. After several dates in restaurants, bars, and cocktails in Landsborough (Baldie had not yet acquired a membership in a London club where more refined bachelors usually invite) the moment came for him to invite me to Norfolk. I went there alone; Baldie waited for me at the train station. I was quick enough to realize that he did not invite me to check if I was ready to share the joys of countryside idyll in the near future. That made me feel melancholy. To entertain me, Baldie drove to introduce me to the pillars of the local society, to the rich and famous, to the Carrot King.

To be quite direct, British chaps always struck me as total prudes in terms of gender-related material aspects of relationships, and intentionally careless in the financial aspects of courting. No use explaining further to those who understood. To those who did not understand, I will tell no more. Not to disappoint you, I will just say that you may be luckier than me.

The Carrot King, whose name I was quick to forget, confirmed my ingrained suspicion that hypocrisy was part of national character, rather than a cultural trait of the islanders. But I am running ahead of the story. So, Baldie decided to show me which houses he has access to and which big shots he rubbed elbow with. The most famous inhabitants of Norfolk were Stephen Fry, an aristocrat who, by some miracle, was not bankrupt, and the Carrot King. As the latter’s nickname suggested, he grew carrots, enough to saturate the world market. Baldie had arranged to meet with him, but the millionaire did not respond to his persistent calls. So Baldie went straight to his home. The house was open but we had to ring the doorbell for a long time before the sleepy Carrot King appeared. He was not tall and had a strong built. There was nothing special in his appearance but he had a good sense of humor and a very lively charm. He saw our couple obviously as a new source of entertainment, which made him wake up.

Baldie once mentioned that he came to the agency following the call of his heart, for which he had to divorce urgently. The other reason was that a friend of his did so. “Has your friend found what he wanted?” I learned that after his divorce, the friend did not look for The One, but for many, which he did not keep secret. The agency even chided him for that, reminding him that they did not specialize in one-night-stands, and that the girls who were paying too, did not plan on amusing, for an evening, a man who did not even hide his polygamous preferences. To make a long story short, the friend did not hit it off with the agency. I wouldn’t be surprised if the friend was the Carrot King himself. I witnessed such candour in the matters of gender roles only once before, in an oil Siberian magnate. Foregoing any Brit preludes such as small talk, the Carrot King pelted Baldie with direct questions: “How many times have you met in England? This is your third date? Have you ever visited her in Moscow? No? And you really believe that she’ll have sex with you?” He did not ask this latter question, not aloud. He kept his outward manners. However, a timely pause implied it clearly enough. Not so quickly, Baldie replied with an affected laughter. He would go to Moscow in a month or so (his trust payments probably came in quarterly). I had wholehearted fun, finding an adaptor and converter who translated Baldie’s intentions from Russian to English and from women’s language to men’s one. The Carrot King went on with his solo: “What, haven’t you even sent her a car with a driver, to London? You do have the nerve, mate!” The myth of British gentlemen’s poetic in today’s materialistic world of love was dispelled. The touching naiveté and affected carelessness were just hiding their habit of not spending a penny in vain, and their certainty that nobody would take offence. To tell you the truth, I have always thought so.

Here, I should digress. I have a habit of offering a drink to my dates in my hotel. Before or after dinner. Or even in daytime. It was a sort of a test. The waiter always asks, “and you, are you staying in this hotel?” If the man just stares at me helplessly, I say: “Yes, of course,” and he fails the test. The right answer is: “No, but it is not a problem.” The man can also follow the waiter to explain the situation in private, or just look at him so that the waiter does not ask any questions and just brings the bill to the man. Only once, I liked the guy so much that when I saw the waiter approaching, I told my companion what I would like to drink and ran off to the loo like a coward. Truth is good but happiness is better.

But let’s return to Baldie and the Carrot King. After having a good fun at the expense of his friend, the Carrot King said that he would gladly join us at dinner in a Norfolk restaurant that evening, which he did, to Baldie’s displeasure. Carrot King won 2 goals to nil, making Baldie appear a complete idiot. Such was the result of Baldie’s attempt to boast the new gal before Carrot King, and his connections with Norfolk best people before me. I never saw Baldie again, or replied to his letters. Why would I bother? He had a good friend who could explain everything.