Leonie Fox

PRIVATE MEMBERS

One

Stifling a yawn, Keeley Finnegan pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and squinted across the eighteenth green. ‘About fucking time,’ she muttered as a gaggle of match-stick figures trooped into view. She glanced at the Cartier watch encircling her slender wrist and couldn’t help smiling as the sun’s rays caught the baguette-cut diamonds, making them sparkle and dance. ‘Three hours it’s taken them to get round this stupid course,’ she said, resuming her frown. ‘Meanwhile, we’re all stuck out here, dying of heat exhaustion – not to mention boredom.’

‘Oh it’s not over yet, darling,’ said Marianne, the oldest member of the group by nearly two decades. ‘Not by a long shot … if you’ll pardon the pun.’ She ran a well-manicured hand over her elegant platinum chignon, smoothing imaginary stray hairs. ‘There are thirty teams taking part in the tournament; this is simply the leading pair.’

‘Which means,’ said Laura, who was married to a pro golfer and therefore knew her eagles from her birdies – even if, like Keeley, she did find the game unspeakably dull – ‘that there are another couple of hours of play left at least. Then there’s the prize-giving ceremony; that’ll take a good hour. And the charity auction, of course. I’d be surprised if we sat down to eat before, ooh, eight o’clock at the earliest.’

Keeley sighed crossly. ‘I can’t believe Fabrizio talked me into this. I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather be doing.’

Spotting an opening gambit, Cindy McAllister, who had contributed precious little to the conversation in the past hour (though not for want of trying), seized the opportunity with both hands. ‘I guess you’re spoilt for choice, huh, honey?’ she said, patting Keeley’s knee in a way she hoped wouldn’t be deemed too intimate. ‘There’s so much to see and do in Delchester; the city’s practically drowning in culture – that’s part of the reason I was so excited about relocating here.’ She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘I hear the Haymarket Gallery is running a fabulous Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition. I was wondering if any of you gals fancied making an afternoon of it. We could have lunch afterwards, maybe wander through Chinatown …’

There was a brief – but pointed – silence before finally Marianne spoke. ‘I’m afraid we’re not great culture vultures, Cindy,’ she said, managing to sound apologetic and patronizing at the same time. ‘We don’t really do galleries, do we, girls?’

‘Ugh, all those dusty old paintings,’ said Keeley with a stagy shudder. ‘They give me the creeps.’

Cindy bit her lip to mask her disappointment. ‘No? How about ballet?’ she said brightly, keen to demonstrate her good taste and broad range of interests. ‘There’s a Frederick Ashton season on at the Royal Exchange. The Sunday Times critic described it as a “must see”.’

Laura shook her head, knowing how the gesture caused her corkscrew curls to bob attractively. ‘I hate ballet,’ she said with a startling degree of vitriol. ‘Those stick-thin dancers make me feel so fat and ugly.’

‘Yes, but all those men in tights, darling,’ said Marianne. ‘It’s always useful to see what credentials a man’s packing before you get him into bed. Don’t you agree, Cindy?’

‘Oh, uh, sure,’ said Cindy, trying to sound as if she were used to broaching such matters over a glass of champagne on a Saturday afternoon. Then, in a desperate attempt to raise the tone: ‘So, why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you like to do?’

‘Shop, shop and shop some more,’ said Keeley in a deadpan tone. She cocked her head and batted her eyelashes coyly – a gesture that made her look much younger than her twenty-seven years. ‘Fabrizio has promised to buy me a diamond if his team wins the tournament.’

‘Oh, the joys of dating a premiership footballer,’ said Laura sarcastically. ‘Tell me, Keeley, how are your Italian lessons coming along?’

Keeley wrinkled her freckled nose. ‘I’ve given them up; I’m rubbish at learning. I was always bottom of the class at school; my teachers told me I’d end up on the checkouts if I wasn’t careful.’ She ran a finger over the face of her £20,000 watch and added in a soft voice: ‘But I showed them.’

Keeley had been dating Fabrizio da Luca, Delchester United’s top striker, for four months. They’d met at St Benedict’s Country Club & Spa, which was where Keeley found all her boyfriends. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say it was the sole reason for her membership.

‘How on earth do you and Fabrizio communicate when you don’t speak a word of Italian and he speaks less English than a four-year-old?’ asked Marianne.

‘Oh, I let Fab’s wallet do the talking,’ said Keeley matter-of-factly. She let out a filthy laugh. ‘And his dick.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You know what these continentals are like. He keeps wanting to do me up the arse.’

‘No!’ squealed Marianne and Laura in unison.

Behind her Prada sunglasses, Cindy rolled her eyes. This was going to be a very long afternoon.

At that moment, a young Latino waiter, clad in white cotton trousers and a matching Nehru jacket, emerged from the clubhouse. He moved smoothly round the women’s table, topping up glasses with Dom Perignon. As he leaned over Cindy’s shoulder, he couldn’t help admiring the striking redhead and the way her Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress clung to her figure, showing off her slim waist and magnificent cleavage to perfection.

Marianne noticed the waiter noticing Cindy and was instantly on the defensive. Extending a honey-coloured arm, she reached behind her and, without any preamble, languidly stroked her hand across the waiter’s crotch, causing an immediate and visible stiffening. The waiter’s eyebrows shot up, but his champagne-pouring hand didn’t wobble.

‘Nice to see you again, Enrique,’ Marianne purred as she unhanded the waiter. ‘I did so enjoy our last …’ she paused and ran her tongue slowly round her peony-painted lips ‘… encounter. We must do it again sometime. Why don’t you call me?’

The waiter smiled lazily. ‘Certainly, Mrs Kennedy. It would be my pleasure,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘Now, if you ladies will excuse me.’ He gave a small bow and, lowering the champagne bottle to mask his swollen manhood, retreated into the clubhouse.

Keeley shot Marianne a sharp look. ‘Tell me you’re not?’

Her friend thrust out her chin and smiled smugly. ‘I’m afraid I am, darling.’

Keeley sighed. ‘I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t. I just hope I’ve got half as much energy when I get to your age.’

Laura turned to Cindy, who couldn’t quite believe the flagrant act of indecency she had just witnessed. ‘You’ll have to excuse Marianne. To say she’s got a wandering eye is something of an understatement.’

Marianne sniffed haughtily. ‘And I make no apology for it. I may not be young, but I’m certainly free and single – and I happen to be very highly sexed.’

Cindy smiled weakly, acutely aware that she mustn’t evince the smallest sign of disapproval. A native Californian, she had arrived in Cheshire just four short weeks ago and was still struggling to find her feet in this unfamiliar milieu. Being, as she was, an inveterate social climber, the one condition Cindy hated more than any other was feeling like an outsider. She would do anything (well, almost anything) to belong – and, more than that, to be at the heart of the action; to be the sparkling pivot round which everyone else revolved, like planets round the sun. The instant she had laid eyes on these three – Marianne, Laura and Keeley – giggling over Sunday lunch in the club’s sumptuous Ladies’ Lounge, while other women shot them looks of disapproval tinged with envy, Cindy knew that this was the clique she wanted (correction: needed) to belong to if she were going to make her mark at St Benedict’s.

Set in 200 acres of prime Cheshire parkland, St Benedict’s was one of England’s most exclusive country clubs. It lay some eight miles west of Delchester, in the village of Kirkhulme, which was notable for possessing more millionaires per square mile than anywhere else in the country. With a two-year waiting list (though this was regularly waived in the case of celebrities and aristocrats), the club’s invitation-only memberships were as highly sought after as bottles of 1961 Château Latour. Dominating the landscape was St Benedict’s famous Grade II-listed art deco clubhouse. Built on the crest of a hill and approached by a long rhododendron-lined drive, the vast white building enjoyed sweeping views of the eighteen-hole golf course, which had played host to numerous championships in its illustrious 110-year history, including two Ryder Cups and ten British Opens.

The annual pro-celebrity golf tournament was the highlight of St Benedict’s summer calendar. Launched in 1972, the event had raised millions of pounds for children’s charities, and each year the list of players grew more impressive. Today’s competition featured no fewer than ten world-ranked golfers, two soap stars, a veteran TV presenter, an international recording artist, an Olympic rower and three premiership footballers – including Fabrizio da Luca, whose powerful physique and smouldering Mediterranean looks made him the ladies’ choice.

Not surprisingly, the tournament attracted hundreds of spectators, many of whom positioned themselves on the course, faithfully following their favourite player from hole to hole, cameras and autograph books at the ready. Others, like our little quartet, preferred the Manolo-friendly environs of the VIP seating area outside the clubhouse, where champagne flowed and vast cream linen parasols offered some relief from the searing July sun.

Marianne frowned. Not that you would have noticed – four-monthly Botox injections kept her forehead as smooth and plump as a teenager’s. For several minutes now she had been aware of the distant – but nonetheless irritating – sound of an engine revving, and it seemed to be getting closer. Marianne was very sensitive to noise. Tea-slurping, birdsong and the wilful cracking of finger bones set her teeth on edge; the churning of a washing machine made her physically nauseous; gum-chewing drove her to distraction. A month earlier, the sound of a dripping overflow had kept her awake all night; so had the plumber who came to fix it.

Twisting round in her chair, she surveyed the stretch of undulating parkland, edged with banks of azaleas and well-regimented flowerbeds, which lay on the east side of the clubhouse. ‘Where in God’s name is that noise coming from?’ she said tetchily. ‘I can feel one of my heads coming on. I shall have to take an aspirin if it doesn’t stop soon.’

A moment later, the mystery was solved as a golf buggy came bouncing over the crest of a man-made hillock. Hunched over the wheel was a mahogany-skinned twenty-something with an artfully tangled mane of hip-length hair and a manic glint in her eye. Judging by the way she kept casting worried looks over her shoulder, she was fleeing from something – or rather someone. After driving straight through a flowerbed, crushing a row of lovingly cultivated Himalayan blue poppies and a rare hybrid tea rose, the blonde floored the accelerator, pushing the buggy to its maximum speed of 20mph.

Suddenly, a second buggy came hurtling into view. Its driver was also deeply tanned and blonde (with a few coffee-coloured streaks thrown in for dramatic effect). This buggy appeared to be chasing the first and, as she drew closer to her quarry, driver number two could be heard screeching a string of unintelligible insults.

Pursuing both buggies on foot was a middle-aged man, perspiring heavily in his regulation Barbour wax jacket, which he refused to remove, even in the warmest weather. Bob Daley was St Benedict’s head groundsman. It was his job to maintain the club’s eight putting greens, six tennis courts (four grass and two clay), crown green bowling lawn, 17,000-square-foot greenhouse that provided the 180,000 flowers for planting every year – and the jewel in the crown: the Peter Alliss-designed championship golf course with its computer-controlled pressurized irrigation system. With the gap between him and the buggies widening by the second, Bob quickly gave up the chase, shaking his fist at the departing vehicles before collapsing to his knees, his fifty-eight years clearly having got the better of him.

‘Those carts are going awful fast,’ said Cindy – who, having struggled to find any common ground with her companions thus far, was glad of the distraction. ‘I wonder what’s going on.’

The women watched in amusement as the buggies zigzagged across the clubhouse’s rolling gardens, their tyres throwing up fat divots of newly laid turf. ‘You know, I’m sure that’s Destiny out in front,’ said Keeley, repositioning her teak recliner for a better view. ‘I’d recognize those minging hair extensions anywhere. I keep telling her they make her look cheap, but will she listen?’

‘Who’s Destiny?’ asked Cindy.

Keeley raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘Destiny Morris. You must have heard of her.’

‘Uh, no, I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember an unusual name like Destiny.’

Keeley looked at the American woman aghast. ‘Destiny Morris is only the most famous glamour model this country has ever produced.’

Marianne made a snorting noise. ‘Which, let’s face it, isn’t saying very much.’

Keeley frowned, but didn’t have the courage to contradict the older woman. ‘Destiny’s latest calendar outsold her nearest rival’s two to one,’ she told Cindy. She paused. ‘Actually, she’s one of my very best friends.’

‘Really? Wow, that’s great,’ said Cindy unconvincingly. ‘Has Destiny had much experience driving those carts? Only her steering seems a little shaky.’

The women watched as the model’s buggy veered sharply to the left, decapitating a low-lying topiary peacock. In the distance, Bob Daley started keening. ‘It certainly doesn’t look like it,’ said Marianne.

‘So who’s that chasing her?’ asked Laura, shading her eyes with a hand as she strained to identify the second buggy’s occupant.

Keeley smiled tightly. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

By now, other VIP guests had noticed the rapidly advancing buggies. An elderly woman nursing a Shih Tzu at the next table shook her head despairingly and remarked to her companion: ‘St Benedict’s used to be such an exclusive establishment. See what happens when you let the riff-raff in?’

Keeley’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t dogs banned from the clubhouse?’ she said in a loud voice. She glared at the dog. ‘They don’t call ’em Shit-zus for nothing, you know. If I get doggy doo-doo on my new Gina sandals, somebody’s going to find themselves barred for life.’

The dog owner opened her mouth to fire back a retort, but before she could speak her friend grabbed her arm. ‘Oh my goodness, Marjorie, the lunatic girl’s heading straight for us!’

She was right. In the tight confines of the two-man buggy, Destiny Morris was struggling to maintain her course, hindered as she was by her gargantuan 32F breasts, which were apparently trying to fight their way out of her three-sizes-too-small vest top. The look on her face was one of grim determination as she tried to steer the buggy away from the dozen or so tables ranged outside the clubhouse. Meanwhile, Destiny’s pursuer had slowed her buggy to a crawl, apparently waiting to see what would happen next.

Spotting a disaster in the making, Enrique thrust a tray of martinis into the hands of his nearest colleague and started running towards the buggy, keen to avert any incident that might affect his customers’ tipping generosity. ‘You must stop!’ he bellowed.

‘I’m trying to!’ Destiny shrieked, as her foot pumped the pedals in vain. ‘Which one’s the brake? I haven’t passed my driving test yet.’

The waiter skidded to a halt. ‘Try the handbrake; it’s in between the seats,’ he yelled. ‘You must hurry, or people are going to get hurt.’

‘Enrique is terribly macho; you wouldn’t believe how dominant he is in bed,’ said Marianne, shuddering as she relived some earlier act of depravity. Behind her back, Laura and Cindy exchanged wry looks.

Meanwhile, the buggy continued on its collision course. Enrique manfully stood his ground, but behind him there was mayhem as the VIPs took to their heels. Chairs were sent toppling, champagne bottles were shattered, canapés were mashed into the lawn. Keeley, Laura, Marianne and Cindy joined the stampede, grabbing their designer handbags and fleeing to the safety of the clubhouse. Realizing that self-sacrifice was pointless, Enrique was hot on their heels.

Seconds later, Destiny’s buggy clipped one of the heavy wrought-iron tables, sending it crashing to the ground. The impact seemed to shock the model into action because she turned her steering wheel sharply to the left, just in time to avoid mowing down the Shih Tzu, who had given his mistress the slip and was lapping up spilled caviar from a broken Conran dish. As the dazed spectators regrouped around the wreckage of their tables, Destiny’s buggy trundled on, now heading directly for the golf course. The second buggy followed close behind, its driver’s face locked in a bitter smile.

Over at the eighteenth green, Laura’s husband, Sam Bentley (world ranking: 52), was preparing to take the shot that could win him and his team mate – soap sex kitten Annalise Terry – the tournament, and his name etched on the coveted cut-crystal rose-bowl trophy for the third time in as many years. Adjusting his grip on his putter, Sam surveyed the short distance between golf ball and hole, trying to focus in the way his sports psychologist had trained him. He was just about to take the shot when a spectator’s mobile phone started to ring, shattering his concentration. Immediately, Sam spun round and glared at the miscreant until he produced his phone from his backpack and shut off the call, grimacing apologetically. This may be a charity tournament, but Sam played each and every game as if it were the Ryder Cup final. Suddenly aware of the BBC North West camera trained on him, Sam’s scowl turned into a smile. ‘I hope you didn’t just hang up on your wife, mate. I’d hate to be responsible for the break-up of someone’s marriage,’ he quipped, prompting a ripple of laughter among the spectators.

Once the tittering had died down, Sam refocused, blocking out every sight and sound around him – everything but the five-foot stretch of turf that lay between him and victory. Oblivious to the distant drone of a brace of golf buggies, he assumed his set-up stance: legs shoulder-width apart, weight centred over the balls of his feet, forearms tensed. Around him, the crowd held its collective breath. Sam was certain the tournament was his; only an idiot would fluff a five-foot putt. At the very second Sam’s club left the ground, he heard a loud shriek from Abi, his caddie. The next thing he knew, the crowd of spectators clustered round the green had scattered and he was lying face down on the closely trimmed turf, felled by a painful rugby tackle from one of the course stewards. ‘You fucking idiot!’ said Sam struggling to his feet and wiping his nostrils free of dirt. ‘You’ve just ruined my shot.’

‘Sorry, Mr Bentley, it was the buggies, sir,’ said the red-faced steward. ‘I was trying to protect you. It looked as if they were heading straight for you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Sam snapped. ‘Buggies are banned during tournaments. The club brought in a ruling last year.’

‘I’m well aware of that, sir – but two of our members appear to have torn up the rulebook.’

Sam followed the steward’s pointing finger and watched in disbelief while a pair of buggies, painted in the maroon-and-gold livery of St Benedict’s, hurtled across the green, forcing players and caddies to flee in every direction. ‘What the fuck …’ he said as the lead buggy flattened the flag marking the eighteenth hole before careering through the avenue of pine trees that separated the green from the fairway beyond. Realizing where the real story lay, the most agile member of the BBC North West camera crew grabbed a hand-held and took off in pursuit.

Back at the clubhouse, the women had relocated to the Moorish-style roof terrace, which afforded excellent views of the unfolding drama below. ‘This sure is turning into a strange afternoon,’ remarked Cindy as she settled on a mosaic bench. ‘So c’mon, guys, put me out of my misery. Who is the chick in the second cart – and what’s her beef with Destiny?’

Laura settled beside Cindy. She was warming to the vivacious Californian, and it wouldn’t do any harm to forge an alliance with a fellow golfer’s wife. In fact, it could prove eminently useful – here, at last, was someone who’d understand what she had to put up with. Everyone thought Sam and Laura had the perfect marriage; few understood precisely how difficult, demanding and downright temperamental professional sportsmen could be. Laura linked her arm through Cindy’s. ‘It’s another wellknown glamour model – Shannon Stewart. Believe it or not, she and Destiny used to be best friends.’

‘Until Shannon waltzed off with Destiny’s fiancé.’ Keeley pursed her lips. ‘And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, poor Des only discovered she was being two-timed when Shannon ’fessed up, live on Richard & Judy. The little slapper had an autobiography to promote, and I suppose she thought that shagging her best friend’s boyfriend and then shooting her mouth off about it was a surefire way to drum up interest in her pathetic little memoir.’

‘She was right too,’ added Laura. ‘The tabloids had a field day with the story and Shannon’s book flew off the shelves.’

‘Poor Destiny,’ sympathized Cindy. ‘Is Shannon still dating this son of a bitch?’

‘Uh-uh.’ Keeley shook her head. ‘Dean Hurley was just a means to an end. The minute his star started to fall, Shannon dumped him.’

‘You mean he was a celebrity too?’

Laura shrugged. ‘After a fashion. Dean won the first series of British Pop Idol. He had a couple of top-ten hits, but then his album flopped and the record company dropped him like a hot brick. At the height of his fame, he made the cover of Heat magazine; these days, he’d be lucky to get on the guest list at the British Legion.’

‘This all happened last year and Destiny and Shannon have been sworn enemies ever since,’ continued Keeley. ‘Des does her best to give Shannon a wide berth, but it’s pretty difficult, especially when they’re both members at St Benedict’s.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Fuck knows what this latest spat’s about. Anyway, Destiny’s an absolute angel. We’ll have to introduce you two.’ She gazed out across the fairway, where Destiny’s buggy was racing up a bunker-strewn hill. ‘That’s if Shannon doesn’t get hold of her first.’

Keeley needn’t have worried, for the model had hatched a cunning plan. With Shannon hot on her tail, Destiny drove straight into the nearest bunker and immediately engaged her newly discovered handbrake. Seeing her rival apparently stranded, Shannon sped to the edge of the bunker. ‘I’ve got you now, you munter!’ she cackled gleefully.

Two seconds later, Destiny floored her accelerator. She had timed it just right. As the buggy’s fat wheels spun, they sent up a five-foot plume of sand, which poured straight through the open roof of Shannon’s vehicle, covering the model from head to foot.

As Shannon’s anguished howls filtered up to the roof terrace, Keeley jumped to her feet. ‘Go, Destiny!’ she shouted, pumping the air with her fist. Even Marianne was impressed.

‘Credit where credit’s due,’ she conceded. ‘The girl’s not as stupid she looks.’

By now, a large crowd – including a number of tournament competitors – had gathered round the bunker, lured by the titillating prospect of two famous models locked in gladiatorial combat. Meanwhile, a four-strong posse of suited security guards attempted to fight its way through to the front, whilst murmuring unheard commands through their wireless earpieces. But before they could reach the bunker, Destiny had released her handbrake and accelerated sharply away, treating Shannon to a second sand shower. Coughing and spluttering furiously, the model shook her head vigorously and took off in pursuit. ‘You’re going to pay for this, Destiny Morris!’ she screamed as she followed her quarry’s meandering progress up the viciously sloping fairway.

As she neared the crest of the hill, Destiny glanced over her shoulder and, seeing the look of dogged defiance in Shannon’s eyes, wondered if her pursuer was ever going to admit defeat. By the time she was facing forward again, the buggy had begun its descent and was plunging straight towards the large, kidney-shaped water hazard guarding the seventeenth hole. Horrified, Destiny slammed on her brakes, causing the buggy to slew sideways as it slid down the hill. Behind her, Shannon’s eyes lit up. ‘Gotcha!’ she whispered.

Much to Destiny’s relief, the buggy finally skidded to a halt two feet away from the edge of the lake. With a pounding heart and a dry mouth, she turned round to see Shannon sitting on her bumper. The model was wearing a peculiar twisted smile as she revved her engine threateningly. ‘I think it’s time for a dip,’ she snarled. Before Destiny had a chance to release her seatbelt, Shannon’s buggy leaped forward, shunting her rival straight through the tall reeds that lined the banks of the lake. Destiny screamed and covered her eyes as her buggy toppled into the murky water, where its engine quickly puttered and died.

First on the scene was the breathless BBC North West cameraman, who fleetingly considered going to Destiny’s aid, but then thought better of it. Positioning the camera on his shoulder, he flipped off the lens cap and began filming as the shocked model half clambered, half fell out of the driver’s seat and into the water. Next to him on the bank, Shannon watched triumphantly as Destiny burst into tears.

‘You stupid bitch, you could have killed me!’ wailed the waterlogged model as she plucked slimy strands of pondweed from her Dolce & Gabbana miniskirt.

Shannon laughed cruelly. ‘I did say you’d live to regret it if you fucked with me.’

‘All I did was make an appointment at the same spray-tanning salon,’ hiccupped Destiny. ‘Anyway, you needn’t worry, I won’t be going back there in a hurry – not when they’ve turned me the same vile shade of satsuma as you.’

Shannon let out a loud screech. Jumping out of the buggy, she kicked off her three-inch heels and – much to the amusement of the rapidly swelling group of onlookers – began wading into the lake. ‘I’m gonna make you wish you’d never set eyes on me,’ she spat, kicking a spray of water into Destiny’s face.

‘Oh for God’s sake, get a life. Haven’t you got better things to do than make my life a misery?’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. Who was it who got me uninvited from the MOBO Awards after-party because she couldn’t stand the competition?’ Without waiting for a reply, Shannon lunged at Destiny, grabbing two handfuls of her long hair.

‘Let go of me, you maniac!’ Destiny cried as she drove her fist straight into Shannon’s solar plexus. Momentarily winded, Shannon released her grip and bent over double, clutching her stomach.

‘Look what you’ve done to my extensions,’ squealed Destiny as she saw a ragged skein of blonde hair floating on the surface of the lake. ‘I paid a fortune for those; that’s real human hair, you know.’

‘I’ve done you a favour,’ gasped Shannon. ‘With that ridiculous mane and those revolting fake tits, you look like the bastard child of Barbie and My Little Pony.’

At this, Destiny launched herself at Shannon, sending her toppling into the water. As the two women grappled in the shallows, trading slaps and insults, their skimpy tops quickly became see-through, prompting much cheering and wolf-whistling from the male spectators assembled on the bank.

Watching at a discreet distance, Sam Bentley couldn’t help feeling aroused at the sight of two scantily clad and indisputably gorgeous women wrestling with such passion. Abi noticed too. ‘Is that a wood in your pocket, Sam?’ she said, giving him a sly nudge.

The golfer grinned as he playfully patted Abi’s pert rump. ‘Just you wait till later,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’m going to show you a boner like you’ve never seen before.’

Back on the roof terrace, Laura and her coterie were busy tucking into scones with clotted cream, their appetites whetted by the afternoon’s unexpected drama. After four glasses of champagne, even Cindy was starting to relax. ‘I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting the tournament to be quite as much fun as this,’ she admitted. ‘I thought you Brits were supposed to be reserved.’

‘Reserved? You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Marianne with an arch smile. ‘You wouldn’t believe what goes on behind closed doors at St Benedict’s.’ She gestured towards the lake, where security guards had forcibly separated the two models and were now dragging them, long limbs flailing, out of the water. ‘Trust me, darling, this is just the tip of the iceberg.’