Subject: Mario has got the keys of my pied-à-terre in Heathrow
From: Londradical
To: Miss Welby
Sent: Friday 20 July 2008 00.02

Mario has got the keys of my pied-à-terre in Heathrow as well as I have the keys of his apartment in Roosevelt Island. Not that I use it as much as he uses mine. When you are an extremely good-looking and successful Italian journalist commuting between Rome and New York via London, a cosy place in Heathrow comes very handy to lay down the ladies you chat up while flying. But if you are a short and fat secret agent with a cover job as a boring literary critic, you don’t get to land many flight attendants in New York, not to mention that you would have to bring them from the JFK or Newark all the way up to bloody focking Roosevelt Island. Mario, instead, enjoys this place every other week. It’s in Heathrow off Bedfont Lane, within walking distance from Terminal 4. I normally live in Chelsea and only retreat to Feltham when I’m fed up with Bulgarian girlfriends oversleeping after I pull them on a Friday night. If you wonder why all of them are Bulgarians, you’ll get a satisfactory explanation later on. Now I feel keener to learn why and how Mario made the skin of the Italian ambassador to the United Nations, His Excellence Brutto Roccoglione. He helpfully explains that he had been shagging the ambassador’s wife for ages:

- In New York I had been shagging Roccoglione’s wife for ages...

- Readers already know, I just wrote that above. But how, and why?

- Well, you know, Flavia is a great piece of pussy

- Mario, I’m not disputing Flavia Roccoglione’s looks, although she’s got very small tits. I’m rather asking you how and why you felt compelled to dispose of her husband the ambassador! Here, have another triple shot

- He knew about us...

- Everybody knew of you and Flavia, but as far as I know Roccoglione didn’t mind, did he?