among the russians

Pol Rochester spends a heady evening with some of Europe’s most easterly neighbours – thankfully not including oligarchs, vodka, and other tired tabloid clichés.

The address is off Piccadilly Circus. We expect deafening music, a corner of an overcrowded bar. It’s the fourth anniversary party of a newspaper for Russians in the UK. I’m coming along with a colleague who knows the advertising manager. A cold night in November. Downhill on Regent Street, roadworks, black cabs, the blindingly-lit premises of a travel agent. I’m about to begin learning Russian, which could be a useful conversation gambit.

Waterloo Place. Dark windows. Except two: we cross the road and peer. People standing by tables, unmistakeable cheekbones. We’re here, doormen nod us in. It’s a generously baroque interior, bunched drapes, huge and ornately-framed mirrors, gilt, marble, vases of extravagant flowers, a Hollywood eighteenth century. There are a few people milling by the doorway, but not my colleague’s contact, so we drift the few yards to the bar. No bartenders, but we study a list of drinks: a dizzying abundance of cocktails.

“Vadim!” my colleague is moving towards a tall, dark-haired man in his 30s and in a grey suit. I join him, and we shake hands. Vadim, the advertising manager, welcomes us, tells us to have a drink and later there will be food. My colleague somewhat excitedly says how honoured we are to be here, though expresses concern that we speak no Russian. Vadim, who is in equal measure friendly, careful, and considered in his responses, assures us that most of those present speak English, and that the cloakroom is on the left.

It is. We hand over our coats, and survey that which is before us. Perhaps 60 or so mostly young and middle-aged men and women, all dressed very smartly, and clutching glasses of wine, gently circulating. It’s a large room, crowded with decoration and dim lighting, divided into a bar area near the door, and then up three steps into two adjoining spaces, one with sturdy-though-elegant chaises longes, the other is an open floor where a large screen shows grinning slides of the newspaper’s staff: with visiting dignitaries, with sports teams, at an airfield. A long, empty, trestle table anticipates the arrival of food.

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