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23-Dec-2019 10:07 by 4 Comments

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I am sure I do not speak only for myself when I say that, as an English woman in Moscow, it is so lovely to have someone open doors, hold out chairs and light your cigarette for a change; casual sex often seems the least one can provide in return.

Firstly, one has to look at the blindingly obvious. The bars of all the Moscow hotels are full of jaw-droppingly beautiful women in furs, keen to befriend besuited Westerners for a large fee.

A friend of mine who worked at an American law firm in Moscow ended up begging to be sent back to New York this summer because he couldn’t take the drinking and clubbing any more.

Clients expected to be taken out to nightclubs full of barely dressed, striking Russian girls, some of whom were prostitutes, some just out for a good time, all doing shots from the hip holsters of the vodka girls in bikinis and stilettos (no, really) and snorting cocaine in the loos.

This is not life, this is Second Life, one in which our Moscow avatars can date seedy gangsters (yes, I plead guilty), drink ’til we’re sick night after night (yes, guilty) and then weep our Russian souls out at the transience of it all (also guilty).

That is perhaps why Deidre chose to write a “fictionalised” account of it all on the internet; as someone who has set three novels in Moscow, I am dubious about anybody who claims, as Deidre Dare has done, that their work is fictional, especially when it features a heroine of roughly the same age, background and behavioural patterns of the author.

Certainly my friend Dave was: he had a new Sveyta, Lena, Olya or Nadia on his arm every night, each as dazzling as the last, the cocaine sparkling in the woman’s eyes. She sits in the car and waits for me to come round to her side to open her door! Me, I admired the uncompromising tenacity of his latest Russian squeeze.

What was always interesting though, was that Dave did end up feeling used, and was unable to build a proper relationship with the pragmatic Moscow girls he met late on vodka-fuelled nights under strobe lighting. Dave now lives in London with his English wife and two children.

The guy we all used to go to the sauna with in Almaty? I have never seen him sober, yet he ran the Kazakhstan end of a massive management consultancy firm and organised the “hospitality” for visiting colleagues from the US and London.

“He died after a big bender for his birthday.” Though Dima was only 43, this was not a huge surprise. The architecture is overbearing, crime is rife and Russians have a live-for-today attitude that is immediately infectious.

The big firms book out ritzy private saunas in steamy pre-Revolutionary buildings tiled in green and gold, where white-coated staff bring you sliced apples, honey and a silver samovar for tea.

It is accepted that prostitutes and vodka will be included. Somebody phoned me up only last week and said: “Remember Dima?

It is usually Western men, not women, who spend their evenings watching women dancing in cages and buying drinks for the uncaged ones at the bar.