Remember the sexy shenanigans at St Benedict’s? The exclusive country club and spa with more millionaires per square foot than the Hamptons in midsummer? Well, the four gorgeous golfers’ girls are back … let Cindy, Laura, Keeley and Marianne suck you into their naughty world where intrigue, blackmail and depravity bubble beneath the steamy waters of the Jacuzzi.

The girls go gossip crazy when fading soap actress Amber Solomon catches her billionnaire hotelier husband in flagrante with the housekeeper and messy divorce proceedings ensue. He won't part with a penny and she's damned if she's going to join the next series of Hell's Kitchen to keep herself in Krug.

Meanwhile, an oversexed American teenager is prowling the spa and Swinging is having a revival among the WAGs and their footballers. But will the Solomons' battle royal disrupt the delicious decadence of Delchester's favourite Spa resort and end in disaster? Of course it will!

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'A romp of naughtiness to be devoured and delighted in'
Sun

'Risqué'
OK!

'A decadent blast of fun'
Heat

One

Amber Solomon settled into the soft leather armchair and set her Balenciaga handbag on the floor. Her expression as she surveyed her cosmetic surgeon was inscrutable (not that Amber’s face had much choice in the matter these days).

Dr Peter Lawrence, perching on a corner of his desk, as was his habit during consultations, smiled pleasantly. ‘So, what brings you here today, Mrs Solomon? I do hope there aren’t any problems with the chin implant.’ He dipped his head, inspecting his recent handiwork. ‘It’s certainly healing well. The scar’s practically invisible already.’

Amber raised a languid hand and stroked her new chin with her fingertips. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Just how I imagined it.’

‘Excellent,’ said Dr Lawrence, beaming delightedly.

‘It’s my nose that’s the problem.’

‘Oh?’ The surgeon’s intelligent grey eyes clouded over.

‘I think I’d like it to be smaller still, and just a touch more retrousse.’

Dr Lawrence folded his arms across his chest and studied the forty-eight-year-old former actress dispassionately. Amber had been an attractive woman when she’d first walked into his surgery, fifteen months earlier. Her forehead had been a little lined and her eyelids a little saggy, but that was only to be expected in a woman of her age. Now, however, eleven surgical procedures later, the face that looked back at him seemed barely human. A series of facelifts had left her skin so taut she could barely crack a smile, while silicon injections and liposuction had bestowed her with obscenely swollen lips and cheekbones sharp as steak knives. Most dramatic of all were the slanted, cat-like eyes, which gave her a perpetually haunted look, like an animal caught in a trap.‘Mrs Solomon,’ he began in a gentle tone, ‘we’ve already performed two previous rhinoplasties. Your nose is perfectly delightful as it is; a further reduction would make your face look quite-,’ the word on the tip of Dr Lawrence’s tongue was ‘freakish’, but he managed to check himself just in time – ‘unbalanced, in my professional opinion.’

Amber sighed in annoyance. ‘Let’s remind ourselves what we’re working towards, shall we?’ She reached into her handbag and removed a manila envelope. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Dr Lawrence. ‘As I told you when we started out on this journey together, I won’t be happy until I look like that.’

The surgeon opened the envelope and withdrew a laminated clipping from National Geographic. It bore a large colour photograph of one of the most recognizable sculptures in the world: the bust of Queen Nefertiti, discovered in 1912 and now housed in Berlin’s famous Egyptian museum. Although he was already familiar with the face in the picture, Dr Lawrence studied it again for politeness’ sake, taking in the perfect nose, full lips and wide-set, feline eyes. He could understand Amber wanting to recapture her youth, but not why she insisted on making herself a grotesque parody of an ancient queen. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ he asked her.

Amber rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘Quite sure. And if you won’t help me, I shall have to find a surgeon who will.’

At this, Dr Lawrence – who was forking out a hefty four-figure sum in alimony every month and paying to put three children through private school – leapt from the desk and placed a hand on Amber’s shoulder. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs Solomon,’ he said smoothly. ‘Why don’t we book you in at the end of the month?’