pause. ‘A jacket?’
‘Yes, a brown leather one.’
‘In my recycle bin?’
‘Right,’ I confirm.
‘Uh … huh. Am I going to get any kind of explanation?’
‘Um … not, right now.’
‘‘Fine, go ahead and be mysterious, then.’
‘It’s important.’
She sighs. ‘What do I do with it again?’
‘Just bring it with you when we go for our appointment.’
‘Okay. What time are you coming?’
‘About ten thirty.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yeah, sure. Sure, I am.’
Thirteen
Tasha Evanoff
L ina thanks Anatoly, our driver, and slips into the back of the car next to me. She thrusts the John Lewis plastic bag at me as Anatoly closes the door behind her and goes around to his seat.
‘Thanks,’ I say air kissing her cheeks.
‘No problem,’ she says. Lina is American. She has a thick head of shining, chestnut hair, chocolate eyes and a blood red mouth. She gets her dusky coloring and her sultry looks from her Italian mother.
‘Are you excited?’ she asks with a grin.
‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
‘So, you want to tell me about the jacket?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Okay. I was under the impression there was a fairly innocent explanation behind it, but now I’m having to revise it up to scandal category.’
I squeeze her. ‘I’ll tell you later. I promise. We’ll go somewhere for tea and cake.’
‘No, not cake. I’m on a diet.’
I smile faintly at her. I’ve known Lina since kindergarten, but I’ve never truly confessed my secrets to her. Sometimes I would make things up so that it did not seem as if it was always she who was telling me things, pouring her heart out to me while I was holding back. Even when I became engaged to Oliver, I never told her how I really felt. Always at the back of my mind, Baba was saying, The less you say, the safer you and they will be.
It is only a short journey to Wardour Street, where Valeria Lahav, the most famous Russian bridal dress designer has her studio. The first to get out is Vadim, my personal bodyguard. He walks to Valeria’s black door with its gold knocker and rings the bell on the side.
When Valeria answers and her receptionist comes to open the door, Vadim returns to the car and holds the door open for us. Afterwards, he positions himself outside the closed door.
Valeria comes out to the reception area to greet us. She has curly blonde hair that is in a messy ponytail at the back of her head and she is smiling widely at us.
‘You are going to be so pleased. I can’t wait for you to see it. The dress is more beautiful than I thought,’ she gushes.
I smile politely and follow her into the large room. There is a long wooden table and a few tailors’ dummies in one corner. She positions us in front of a curtain. ‘Are you ready?’ she asks theatrically.
‘Yes,’ I say with a big fake smile.
She pulls the curtain and I hear Lina gasp beside me. It is certainly not modest. Then again, Valeria’s designs are famous for their extravagance and intricacy. Italian ivory lace over light gold featuring a high mandarin and yards and yards of silk tulle skirt. There are Swarovski crystals delicately sprinkled throughout with rich decorative beading at the empire waist. I stare at it with conflicting emotions. I have to admit the dress is stunning, extravagant, intricate and more beautiful than I ever imagined when Valeria and I first discussed it and she showed me her sketches and swatches, but I don’t want to marry Oliver. Not in this dress, not in any dress.
‘All of this,’ she is saying, ‘is hand finished by the top seamstresses in Russia using the finest luxury sewing techniques. All the stitches are so tiny you cannot see them without a magnifying glass. Come and see the back,’ she encourages.
I walk around it, noting its keyhole back and the fishtail train finished with scalloped edging.
‘The zipper closure is hidden with silk-covered buttons,’ Valeria says proudly.
I nod
‘Yes, a brown leather one.’
‘In my recycle bin?’
‘Right,’ I confirm.
‘Uh … huh. Am I going to get any kind of explanation?’
‘Um … not, right now.’
‘‘Fine, go ahead and be mysterious, then.’
‘It’s important.’
She sighs. ‘What do I do with it again?’
‘Just bring it with you when we go for our appointment.’
‘Okay. What time are you coming?’
‘About ten thirty.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yeah, sure. Sure, I am.’
Thirteen
Tasha Evanoff
L ina thanks Anatoly, our driver, and slips into the back of the car next to me. She thrusts the John Lewis plastic bag at me as Anatoly closes the door behind her and goes around to his seat.
‘Thanks,’ I say air kissing her cheeks.
‘No problem,’ she says. Lina is American. She has a thick head of shining, chestnut hair, chocolate eyes and a blood red mouth. She gets her dusky coloring and her sultry looks from her Italian mother.
‘Are you excited?’ she asks with a grin.
‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
‘So, you want to tell me about the jacket?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Okay. I was under the impression there was a fairly innocent explanation behind it, but now I’m having to revise it up to scandal category.’
I squeeze her. ‘I’ll tell you later. I promise. We’ll go somewhere for tea and cake.’
‘No, not cake. I’m on a diet.’
I smile faintly at her. I’ve known Lina since kindergarten, but I’ve never truly confessed my secrets to her. Sometimes I would make things up so that it did not seem as if it was always she who was telling me things, pouring her heart out to me while I was holding back. Even when I became engaged to Oliver, I never told her how I really felt. Always at the back of my mind, Baba was saying, The less you say, the safer you and they will be.
It is only a short journey to Wardour Street, where Valeria Lahav, the most famous Russian bridal dress designer has her studio. The first to get out is Vadim, my personal bodyguard. He walks to Valeria’s black door with its gold knocker and rings the bell on the side.
When Valeria answers and her receptionist comes to open the door, Vadim returns to the car and holds the door open for us. Afterwards, he positions himself outside the closed door.
Valeria comes out to the reception area to greet us. She has curly blonde hair that is in a messy ponytail at the back of her head and she is smiling widely at us.
‘You are going to be so pleased. I can’t wait for you to see it. The dress is more beautiful than I thought,’ she gushes.
I smile politely and follow her into the large room. There is a long wooden table and a few tailors’ dummies in one corner. She positions us in front of a curtain. ‘Are you ready?’ she asks theatrically.
‘Yes,’ I say with a big fake smile.
She pulls the curtain and I hear Lina gasp beside me. It is certainly not modest. Then again, Valeria’s designs are famous for their extravagance and intricacy. Italian ivory lace over light gold featuring a high mandarin and yards and yards of silk tulle skirt. There are Swarovski crystals delicately sprinkled throughout with rich decorative beading at the empire waist. I stare at it with conflicting emotions. I have to admit the dress is stunning, extravagant, intricate and more beautiful than I ever imagined when Valeria and I first discussed it and she showed me her sketches and swatches, but I don’t want to marry Oliver. Not in this dress, not in any dress.
‘All of this,’ she is saying, ‘is hand finished by the top seamstresses in Russia using the finest luxury sewing techniques. All the stitches are so tiny you cannot see them without a magnifying glass. Come and see the back,’ she encourages.
I walk around it, noting its keyhole back and the fishtail train finished with scalloped edging.
‘The zipper closure is hidden with silk-covered buttons,’ Valeria says proudly.
I nod
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