Most of you will be familiar with the concept of the ‘little black dress’ and the ensuing rule behoving every woman to own a simple, but elegant, classically-cut, and versatile black dress that can be worn and accessorised for any occasion. From the Givenchy draping Audrey Hepburn’s lithe frame in Breakfast at Tiffany’s to the unpretentious pieces donned by Edith Piaf, the little black dress is a dependable companion, the friend who never disappoints you and never fails to enhance your quintessential beauty. I, too, have a little black dress. In fact, I have several. But my black fashion essential is neither a gown, nor a frock. I have a garment that is just as reliable and complimentary as any little black dress could ever be. I have a little black coat that I cherish and adore.

Hanging to just half-way above the knee, my little black coat is petite. It has a belt that wraps snugly around my waist and a Nehru collar (unfolded, stand-up collar) which serves to accentuate the elegance and delicacy of a woman’s neck. The coat is made of double-faced wool and has bracelet-sleeves that end just below the elbow. Designed in Italy, my little black coat is ideal, a perfect, functional adornment from late autumn to early spring.

The story of how I acquired my little black coat is set in an unexpected place. On the site of the historic Hotel Moskva, built in the 1930s in central Moscow and situated just a short walk from Red Square, there now stands an identical, but new structure. Some connoisseurs may recognise it as the edifice faintly sketched on labels of Stolichnaya Vodka bottles. With the Four Seasons Hotel in its eastern wing and the three-story Fashionable Season shopping galleria occupying its remaining 183,000 square metres, this structure, unlike its predecessor, is modern, commercial and capitalist.

It was here, in this antithetical amalgamation of Stalinist architecture and consumerism (a pastime once inaccessible to most Soviet citizens), that I found myself one crisp February evening when I chose to invigorate my spirit by indulging in some therapeutic window shopping. Little did I know that each step was bringing me closer to the moment when I would fall irrevocably in love, in love with a garment that was destined to envelope me in a sense of joy and much-appreciated confidence.

I found myself in an exclusive clothes shop. Suits, dresses, blouses, skirts – all hung in an orderly manner, their gleaming tags displaying prices which exceeded each garment’s market value two or threefold. This was to be expected. After all, Moscow is consistently ranked among the world’s most expensive cities. Suddenly, I saw a singular vision suspended in the air on a silk dress hanger, illuminated in all its splendour by a soft, golden light. My coat. My little black coat. I approached it hesitantly, terrified that if I tried it on it, the coat would seem even more wonderful than it was already. My mind was bombarded by a plethora of arguments as to why I should refrain from making this purchase; the main one, of course, being the fact that I had far more coats than necessary to get me through the Moscow winter and acquiring another would surely be an act of gluttony.

But this coat was unique, special, and as I lifted it gently over my shoulders and felt it settle comfortably around my frame, I realised that I had found something extraordinary. I stood before a mirror in the shop and looked at my reflection. This coat had transformed me into an elegant, feline, seductively-intriguing young lady and no amount of guilt could dissuade me from diving into my savings account in order to own this breathtakingly beautiful, stop-you-in-your-tracks black coat. 

Naturally, I needed accessories. So I purchased a vintage, wide brim, woollen fedora hat and a pair of elbow-length woollen gloves embroidered with flowers. And with that, my look was complete. There I was. A true consumer. I had spent a sum equalling an average Muscovite’s monthly pension payment and a tad greater than one-fifth of an average Muscovite’s monthly salary. This is the financial reality stemming from vicious import duties and the willingness of consumers to overpay, in a country whose standard of living sadly continues to be compromised by immense corruption.

I was delighted, but a sense of uneasiness tugged at my heart. Sociologists and historians have long recognised the role of fashion as an indicator of socio-economic status. During the Enlightenment, the bourgeoisie were able to acquire the fashion and other luxury items of the aristocrats, through which they cultivated the image they hoped to project. One coat could be the key to giving them the facade they craved.

I was able to afford this coat, but a large number of people in Moscow who realistically cannot afford such an indulgence feel compelled to spend one-fifth of their salaries or sacrifice their pensions to satisfy a psychological need, rather than a physical necessity for warmth. This is the nature of an emerging capitalist market in a post-communist state in which only a small minority has the luxury of truly calling itself middle class, but all people, as in any other country, want desperately to be a part of it.