Embyra
Well-Known Member
How to snare a millionaire: Sick of working as a shop girl, Kim reinvented herself with the sole aim of landing a rich husband - and got one
A recent survey showed most women still dream of marrying a millionaire. A year ago Kim Perez, 43 and working in a chemist’s shop, set out to fulfil that ambition. Here she tells ANNA PURSGLOVE how she succeeded …
Last spring, I flew to New York for a date with a man I had not met before. As I walked *towards the arrivals lounge I frantically smoothed down my clothes, fretting that my carefully selected wardrobe (Moschino shirt, Mulberry holdall and fake-but-convincing diamond earrings) wouldn’t be showy enough to impress an American multi-millionaire.
This, after all, was a man who owned a penthouse in Florida, a ski lodge in Colorado and a business pad in New York. He ate in top restaurants, drank the finest champagnes and, I was sure, could have dated any woman he set his sights on.
Self transformation: Kim Perez spent months changing her appearance, and even her accent, all so she would meet a rich man
But he wasn’t dating any woman, he was dating me — a pharmacy counter saleswoman from the dull old town of Brigg in North Lincolnshire. And, yes, I’d targeted him not just because he was attractive, but also because he had serious money.
The simple fact is, I’d spent months changing my appearance, and even my accent, all so I would meet a rich man. And if that sounds shallow, then let me explain a little about my past.
I come from a very humble background and left school with no qualifications. I married my boyfriend Steven, a mechanic, straight out of school and, aged 20, gave birth to our daughter Claudia.
I worked in my local pharmacy, but I always felt I deserved a better life. Just like people who believe they have been born the wrong gender or in the wrong era, I felt like I’d been born into the wrong social class.
I had this hunger for the finer things in life, and the lives I read about in glossy magazines. I wanted to live in beautiful houses and own designer clothes and jewellery.
Although people always describe me as good-looking, I dreamt of having a nose job and a boob job. If I really wanted to live this life I dreamed of, it was obvious that my next partner would need to have money. Proper money.
So when my marriage fizzled out and I found myself nudging 40, I decided to reinvent myself into the kind of woman that a wealthy man might find attractive. But how could a beauty counter assistant from Brigg pull it off?
In my head, I made a mental list of how I would go about it. No man is going to look at a woman he believes is simply after his money, so I had to pretend I had my own.
The first thing that had to go was my Northern accent. I’d always hated the way people from Brigg said ‘ey up’ or referred to me as ‘our Kim’. Northern accents make people assume you’re stupid and working class. I needed to delete my past in order to change my future.
First, I decided to invest in elocution lessons. I spent £600 seeing a private tutor twice a week. After six months, it was virtually impossible to tell I had been born in the North.
Secondly, I needed to know where rich people ate, and where they holidayed. I needed to educate myself.
I read glossy magazines to find out about the best restaurants and the most luxurious resorts, and I got books from the library on etiquette. I didn’t want to use the wrong knife or pick up someone else’s bread roll by mistake.
I remember one book said it was OK to get your compact out at the table because the Queen does that. I do that all the time now.
Happy now: Kim met millionaire husband David through an internet dating site that specialised in matching Americans with Brits
If I was going to convince someone that I had the same life as them — and, more importantly, that I could fit into their world — I needed to know the places that they were talking about, and exactly how to behave.
Finally, I knew I had to look the part. It’s no good having a beautiful voice if you’re dressed head-to-toe in High Street clothes.
Here, though, I had a problem. I’d already spent my savings on elocution lessons: how could I afford a whole new wardobe — and a designer one at that — on my meagre wage?
But I wasn’t about to give up. I took on as many extra shifts as I could manage, and saved every last penny. Instead of buying from designer shops, I spent hours scouring eBay.
I decided that I would focus on building up an expensive look to be worn only on dates. I bought a second-hand Mandalay dress (sexy but classy), plus a few designer accessories, including a second-hand Christian Dior bag and a Louis Vuitton holdall.
I also bought a crisp Moschino shirt and some well-cut Joe’s Jeans for a more casual look.
A recent survey showed most women still dream of marrying a millionaire. A year ago Kim Perez, 43 and working in a chemist’s shop, set out to fulfil that ambition. Here she tells ANNA PURSGLOVE how she succeeded …
Last spring, I flew to New York for a date with a man I had not met before. As I walked *towards the arrivals lounge I frantically smoothed down my clothes, fretting that my carefully selected wardrobe (Moschino shirt, Mulberry holdall and fake-but-convincing diamond earrings) wouldn’t be showy enough to impress an American multi-millionaire.
This, after all, was a man who owned a penthouse in Florida, a ski lodge in Colorado and a business pad in New York. He ate in top restaurants, drank the finest champagnes and, I was sure, could have dated any woman he set his sights on.
But he wasn’t dating any woman, he was dating me — a pharmacy counter saleswoman from the dull old town of Brigg in North Lincolnshire. And, yes, I’d targeted him not just because he was attractive, but also because he had serious money.
The simple fact is, I’d spent months changing my appearance, and even my accent, all so I would meet a rich man. And if that sounds shallow, then let me explain a little about my past.
I come from a very humble background and left school with no qualifications. I married my boyfriend Steven, a mechanic, straight out of school and, aged 20, gave birth to our daughter Claudia.
I worked in my local pharmacy, but I always felt I deserved a better life. Just like people who believe they have been born the wrong gender or in the wrong era, I felt like I’d been born into the wrong social class.
I had this hunger for the finer things in life, and the lives I read about in glossy magazines. I wanted to live in beautiful houses and own designer clothes and jewellery.
Although people always describe me as good-looking, I dreamt of having a nose job and a boob job. If I really wanted to live this life I dreamed of, it was obvious that my next partner would need to have money. Proper money.
So when my marriage fizzled out and I found myself nudging 40, I decided to reinvent myself into the kind of woman that a wealthy man might find attractive. But how could a beauty counter assistant from Brigg pull it off?
In my head, I made a mental list of how I would go about it. No man is going to look at a woman he believes is simply after his money, so I had to pretend I had my own.
The first thing that had to go was my Northern accent. I’d always hated the way people from Brigg said ‘ey up’ or referred to me as ‘our Kim’. Northern accents make people assume you’re stupid and working class. I needed to delete my past in order to change my future.
First, I decided to invest in elocution lessons. I spent £600 seeing a private tutor twice a week. After six months, it was virtually impossible to tell I had been born in the North.
Secondly, I needed to know where rich people ate, and where they holidayed. I needed to educate myself.
I read glossy magazines to find out about the best restaurants and the most luxurious resorts, and I got books from the library on etiquette. I didn’t want to use the wrong knife or pick up someone else’s bread roll by mistake.
I remember one book said it was OK to get your compact out at the table because the Queen does that. I do that all the time now.
If I was going to convince someone that I had the same life as them — and, more importantly, that I could fit into their world — I needed to know the places that they were talking about, and exactly how to behave.
Finally, I knew I had to look the part. It’s no good having a beautiful voice if you’re dressed head-to-toe in High Street clothes.
Here, though, I had a problem. I’d already spent my savings on elocution lessons: how could I afford a whole new wardobe — and a designer one at that — on my meagre wage?
But I wasn’t about to give up. I took on as many extra shifts as I could manage, and saved every last penny. Instead of buying from designer shops, I spent hours scouring eBay.
I decided that I would focus on building up an expensive look to be worn only on dates. I bought a second-hand Mandalay dress (sexy but classy), plus a few designer accessories, including a second-hand Christian Dior bag and a Louis Vuitton holdall.
I also bought a crisp Moschino shirt and some well-cut Joe’s Jeans for a more casual look.
j/k! j/k!!
