50
Sasha had wanted to open a Moscow branch of Rivera ever since the ultra-rich, high-spending tide of Russians began sweeping into London. She’d spent eighteen months doing her homework on the former Soviet capital, working out what the high net worth women of the city would want. If there was one thing Sasha had learnt from her time in the global fashion industry, it was that while all women loved shopping, their spending habits varied from country to country. The French bought fewer, more classic items, but they were prepared to pay for quality, while the Brits were more into trend-led impulse purchases. So when her research revealed that rich Russians liked their fashion to be an overt statement of their new-found wealth, she set out to make the launch of the Rivera Moscow a lavish, no-expenses-spared event, hiring the most prestigious firm of party planners to make it happen.
As the Rivera store was only small – she couldn’t believe the price of premium retail space in Moscow – they had decided to host the trunk show and party at one of the city’s prestigious venues. There had been an embarrassment of options: from the State Museum, whose address of One Red Square had almost swung it, to the Park Hyatt hotel which served cocktails at forty dollars a pop. In the end she had plumped for the library dining room of the Café Pushkin, which had practically become the local canteen for oligarchs, Russian politicos and supermodels.
They arrived in force. Men fattened with the proceeds of the newly capitalistic state. Wives dripping in sable mink and pink diamonds. Girlfriends and mistresses with angular faces and beautiful bodies. Sasha wasn’t intimidated; she knew she could compete with any of them. She had upped her personal Pilates classes from three to five times a week which had made her body even leaner than usual, and the quarter-head of Botox had smoothed her skin and given her a glow. Her favourite dress from the Spring/Summer collection had been customised especially for the Russian market, with crystal embellishment and a lower scooped neckline, accessorised by high metallic Rivera heels and a butter-soft Rivera clutch. Not only was she working hard to make Rivera a global brand, she knew she had to position it as a luxury goods company and not simply a fashion house.
‘Do you speak English?’ asked a male voice behind her.
She turned round to see a slim man in his late twenties with incredible blue eyes.
‘Of course I do,’ she replied. ‘I own the company.’
‘Phew!’ said the man, miming wiping his brow. ‘I thought I was going to have to walk around saying da and niet all night, hoping I got lucky.’
‘Well, I can teach you the Russian for “The Rivera store opens on Saturday” if you like.’
They laughed complicitly.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked and he smiled.
‘I get that a lot; I’m covered in a helmet half the time.’ He held out his hand. ‘Josh Steel. I’m a racing driver.’
‘Sasha Sinclair.’
‘I know,’ he said with a flirtatious smile.
‘What are you doing in Moscow? I didn’t know there was a race here.’
‘There isn’t,’ said Josh. ‘The season hasn’t started. But our team are looking for sponsors. I’m kind of here to schmooze.’
And so am I, thought Sasha, feeling cross with herself for wasting time on someone who wasn’t going to buy her clothes.
‘Well, good luck with the language barrier,’ she said, spotting the wife of a high-ranking politician across the room.‘I’ve got to mingle.’
Two hours later, the show was over and Sasha was glowing with a social and business triumph. Rivera’s Russian PR Karla had already warned her that they might have to reorder stock before the Rivera store had even opened – already a handful of women had proclaimed that they wanted ‘everything’, and neither Sasha nor Karla thought they were joking. Slipping on her russet-red fox fur, Sasha headed out into the chilly Moscow night air. She was the last to leave Café Pushkin and she was left alone on Pushkin Square.
Where’s my bloody car? she thought anxiously. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, not even knowing the word for ‘hotel’. The white boxy shape of a Muscovite taxi turned the corner. Cold, tired and desperate to get back to her hotel, she put her hand out to stop it.
‘Hey, missus,’ called an amused voice. ‘You don’t want to be getting into taxis all alone at night.’ Josh Steel was leaning out of the window of a black Mercedes, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘I’m screwed then, aren’t I?’ she said.
‘Too early to tell.’ He grinned, popping the passenger door open.
She walked across and got in.
‘What hotel are you at?’
‘Park Hyatt.’
‘Splendid, so am I,’ he said, gunning the engine.
‘I hope you’re going to stick to the speed limit, Mr Steel,’ she said in mock alarm.
He smiled. ‘I’m fast but I’m safe.’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’