[Three everyday Knightsbridge housewives…. A banner saying “Happy Anniversary” adorns the lounge of a penthouse, mortgaged by Soviet Equitable Life]

SVETLANA: Unbelievable, Irina!  Two whole months with stony face oligarch! What is secret to survival of such lengthy marriage?

IRINA: Long legs, short skirt, hard roubles. Plus capacity to engage in complex deep-throat manoeuvre when surrounded by eight-foot bodyguards and constant crackle of walkie-talkie. [She holds up his and hers bullet-proof vests, which say “Roman” and “Irina”] Are these real Versace?

SVETLANA: Miami Beach serial killer, autumn collection.

IRINA: How thoughtful, Svetlana. Only last week someone try to shoot me, and I was late for super important botox appointment.

SVETLANA: You take such risks, dear. Harley Street is full of cowboys with needles. My sister now have skin of greasy boa constrictor.

MARIA: Talking of which, will your husband be joining us?

IRINA: No, his favourite bugger at KGB just die. So he has gone to sulk in Shed. Where he watch Chelsea. With mail-order tart, fresh from Budapest. Discreet, efficient, anorexic. She come in jiffy bag before breakfast.

SVETLANA: Don’t you think it’s a bit early in your marriage to let him go whoring?

IRINA: If I crush his little treats, how will my train fill with gravy?

MARIA: Believe me, if you do not stick finger in dyke, trickle of tarts will become tsunami of prostitutes….

SVETLANA: Yes, I am raising congestion charge for tampon machine in guest bathroom.

MARIA: …one minute dancing round pole, sniffing cocaine off waterbed, next minute choosing fabrics, changing curtains and warming her goulash in your aga.

IRINA: Do not worry. I can handle his rabid little Uzi polisher. [pointing to herself] Only one woman can bring smile to face of my Roman.

MARIA: Really? Then ask yourself, why does man with Lamborghini ride to work on Hungarian bicycle?

[Svetlana thinks back to her agricultural vehicle maintenance classes at primary school, but finds this unhelpful]

IRINA [to Svetlana]:  Who is this idiot?

SVETLANA: You remember Maria? From when we hand out bananas, for executive lunch on Aeroflot. She perform highly arousing demonstration of emergency exits. And could have saved many lives, if main hijacker had not been Islamic gay rights activist.

MARIA: I bring you anniversary present. [holding up book] ‘Cooking for Money Launderers’. Now unrecognisable from original version.

SVETLANA: It contain excellent recipe for cabbage gateau. In life-size form of automatic washing-machine. With chocolate thermostat. And hundreds and thousands for extended warranty.

IRINA: I do not have time for half-baked tittle-tattle. Armoured taxi will be arriving shortly, and I still have to dye my bush.

[Maria looks confused]

IRINA [contd.]: As our mamushka used to say, “always make sure your muff match colour of lingerie. In case you get run over. Or feel little prick with umbrella”.

SVETLANA: Where are we going?

IRINA: I thought we play safe this month. And have sushi, at Litvinenko Seafood Bistro.

SVETLANA: Wonderful. My new Victoria Beckham perfume provide excellent antidote to polonium.

MARIA: Yes, I hear the Chernobyl cheesecake is to die for.

IRINA: Ciao, darlings. See you later. [looking out the window] And mind the bearded assassin on your way out. Either that, or I have forgotten to pay Iraqi Avon lady.