He’s thirtysomething, earns seven figures and lives in an immaculate bachelor
pad. He drives an Aston Martin, his Amex is impervious to the most frenzied
shopping trip and you’ll never have to slum it on a cut-price holiday again.
If this is your idea of the perfect partner, you’re not alone. When Prince &
Associates, an American wealth-research firm, asked a sample group of
thirtysomething women if they would marry for money, a resounding 75 per
cent said yes. However, before you start hunting your City banker quarry,
think again. The lifestyle sounds promising on paper, but – like all good
things – it comes at a price.
First, forget lording it at VIP tables in members’ clubs, cracking open bottle
after bottle of Cristal. Serious earners just don’t do that. Why? Because
they’re long since tucked up in bed. I should know – for nearly four years I
had a 10pm curfew. My (now ex) banker boyfriend insisted on it. For a City
trader juggling multimillion pound positions, which could bring a bank to
its knees, sleep is crucial. If my boy was to crush the opposition, his
brain needed rest.
So, by 9.30 every night we’d be brushing our teeth in separate bathrooms, and
by ten the lights were out.
Whether you’re tired or not is irrelevant, and insomnia is not on the
schedule. Tossing and turning will interfere with his precious sleep, so if
counting sheep fails you’ll be banished to a spare room to ensure that he
gets eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.
What about sex, then? Surely these testosterone-fuelled chaps are rampant in
the sack? Again, you’ll need to adjust your expectations: because if it
doesn’t involve earning money, it tends to be rather low on the priority
list. A seriously risky trading position will mean he’ll be so consumed by
angst that not even a trio of Russian supermodels could appeal to his carnal
side. And while you may have the luxury of endless lie-ins, he’ll have
bolted out of bed by 6am, scanned his BlackBerry and checked the markets
before he’s even got in the shower.
High flyers crave order and control because there’s enough chaos at work. So,
be warned, he’ll expect his home life to run on rails – smoothly, quietly,
flawlessly. His wardrobe will be a temple to minimalist efficiency: slabs of
pristine shirts arranged by colour, bespoke suits, £500 shoes in clear boxes
for fast identification, cufflinks and collar stiffeners ready to go.
Underwear tends to be identical, white, usually Calvin Klein or Armani.
Watches are to City boys what alpha handbags are to women. Expect him to
have a collection worth more than a semi in South London. Patek Phillipe,
IWC, Franck Muller – for day, night, sport and everything in between.
When I first entered my ex-boyfriend’s house, I had the feeling that I’d
walked on to the set of American Psycho. “Are you sure you actually
live here?” I asked. It was a quiet, immaculate space, no clutter allowed
anywhere. The boy sweated blood to afford the place and, since he spent no
time actually living in it, he liked it to look as if it was awaiting a House
& Garden shoot. Shoes, toddlers and red wine were all inconceivable.
So all week you’ve slept like a mouse, scur-ried about ensuring that the
household runs without a hitch, and by Friday night you’re aching to hit the
town. He’ll feel too guilty to refuse, and you’ll find yourself in a
Michelin-starred restaurant, chattering away, while he stares into space,
craving sleep as badly as a junkie needs heroin.
Bankers’ girls find their lives mirroring market trends. When he does well,
you’ll be swept along on a tide of champagne and adrenalin. But when things
go wrong – and they usually go spectacularly wrong – you will find yourself
in a darkened room, murmuring soothing words while he fights off a nervous
breakdown.
Yes, you’ll get to sink into the cushioned depths of a grown-up sports car
that draws envious glances at every traffic light. But you’ll soon start to
resent the thing when you have to remove your shoes in case you soil the
upholstery. Add the stress caused by scratches and damage, the endless
search for safe parking, and keeping it out of the hands of vandals and
joyriders, and you’ll soon long for a battered Golf.
And what about those promised holidays? Well, they do exist and your friends
will be gnashing their teeth at the brochures, but you’ll need to be happy
in your own company. I wandered the streets of Marrakesh and Florence solo
while he spent all his time with the BlackBerry jammed to his ear, or
bashing away at its keypad. Then there were the days spent Lost in
Translation style at one of Dubai’s most opulent hotels, because he had
to fly back to London to deal with a crisis at work.
If you’re confounded by why bankers keep working long after they’ve
accumulated millions and millions, the answer is simple: it’s not about the
money. Really. After a few years, the cash becomes irrelevant. Instead, it’s
about winning, about annihilating your opponents, whether it’s on the
trading floor, the squash court, in the bar or in the boxing ring. These
guys have an insatiable appetite to win at everything, so don’t try to
compete.
And if it happens that he’s not winning, not out-earning his boss or his
colleagues, you’ll be expected to keep schtum. Having a few too many glasses
of champagne and blurting out how disappointed he was with his last bonus
could see you hurled out the door. Bankers’ girls should remember it’s all
about image: that means silent, smiling supportiveness, and never, ever
revealing what he earns – especially not to other bankers’ WAGs, because the
news will be around the City before the first espressos have been drunk on
Monday morning.
If this makes it all sound like hard work, then fear not. When I was taken to
Selfridg-es and cocooned in a cream-carpeted boudoir with a personal
shopper, while a pair of flunkies rushed around the store finding me a new
wardrobe, I wasn’t exactly suffering. As I cooed over a perfectly fitted
Armani jacket and an immaculately cut Ralph Lauren suit and the bill soared
ever upwards, the boy never flinched.
We left an hour later with an armful of bags and I have no idea of the final
tally, but it must have been nudging five figures. A further burst of retail
madness in Bond Street, and we hopped into a taxi and headed home. It sounds
like pure fantasy, and for a girl like me with a job in public sector PR, it
was. Every time I put on one of those garments I feel a million dollars, and
remember that heady day.
Yes, there were perks, and good ones. The ease of knowing that you can take
taxis without a thought, of never having to check price tags on anything.
The luxury of going to the opera or the ballet without scrimping for months
for a seat up in the stratosphere.
I wanted for nothing – nothing that could be bought, anyway: La Perla, Crème
de la Mer and acres of cashmere after every business trip, my 30th birthday
party for a crowd of friends at Home House, the nights out that now make me
wince at their unabashed expense; the £1,000 dinner in Paris, the
seven-course tasting menus with matching wine flights at any number of
Michelin restaurants; and the bouquets so large they could hardly fit
through the door, which had even the courier gawping in amazement.
But in the end all the cashmere in the world cannot insulate you from the cold
truth that such men will always love their money and their jobs more than
you. You will be an afterthought – an indulgence at best. If you can cope
with that, and with a life whose sole spiritual or emotional dimension
consists of worshipping at the retail temples of Knightsbridge and Bond
Street, then their world is yours for the taking.
But I couldn’t, and shortly after the City superhero picked up yet another
multimillion-pound bonus, I packed my things and left. No wardrobe was large
enough, no jewels sparkly enough and no holidays glamorous enough to
compensate for the sting of unrequited love.
Since then there have been times when I’ve waited in the rain for buses and
remembered all those extravagances – my other life – and wondered if I
folded my cards too soon, was too proud, too stubbornly romantic.
But now, as I pad around my new boyfriend’s chaotic flat, leaving stray coffee
mugs on every floor, scattering newspapers in my wake, I have no regrets. We
make an unholy mess in the kitchen, leave our clothes strewn up the stairs
and go to sleep in the small hours. He drives a beaten up car stuffed with
dirty riding gear and legal papers. And I think he’s wonderful.
I’d like to say I’m slumming it, but then Guy is a barrister, the flat is in
Chelsea and he has his sights set on a career as a Conservative politician.
Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.
Looking for millionaire love (in all the wrong places)
“Sounds like an escort agency.” This wasn’t exactly the reaction I was
expecting from my flatmate Claudia when I told her about the millionaire
dating club I was joining. What could be wrong with signing up with an
agency in which all the eligible bachelors were lonely, time poor but cash
rich (net disposable assets of at least £1 million essential) and who paid
£10,000 for a service in which all that was required of me was to be a “well
educated, goal orientated and attractive professional”?
The company insisted that it offered the opportunity to find a partner for
“long-term relationships for both ladies and gentlemen”. After all, I told
Claudia, who doesn’t want to marry a millionaire?
Alarm bells should have sounded when the online application asked only for my
name, age, e-mail address and photo. Didn’t they want to know what I did, or
what my interests were? But it wasn’t until my face-to-face consultation
that reality set in. Despite an hour-long intensive review of my likes (road
trips), dislikes (flashy cars and bars), relationship history (two serious
boyfriends), future goals (house and kids in the country) and preferences
(someone about my age, tallish, laid-back, with a taste for spit and sawdust
pubs and camping), it was clear that my interests were secondary to the
paying clients’. I was presented with two potential dates whose interests
bore no relation to mine: the first was short, mid-forties, liked fine
wines; the other was tall, my age, liked luxury holidays and jet-set clubs.
My dismissal of both was met by exasperation: “But they’re
multimillionaires.” Maybe, but I’m not for sale. OLEANNA MILLS
