Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World by Mike A Vickers Page B

through the leaded windows to splash diamond patterns on the old oak floors. Portraits lined the panelled walls. An observant guest would have noted they were all paintings of women. Some were grand indeed: a Reynolds here, a Gainsborough there, a dreamy Fragonard between the windows, and above the ornate fireplace, dominating the entire room, an extraordinary, vibrant, brooding portrait of Helen of Troy by Sir Frederick Sandys.
    A woman was waiting for them. ‘Welcome, Gaia,’ she said with a warm smile, kissing the back of Doreen’s hand and each cheek. She was in her late twenties, willowy and slender, fresh-faced, with a tanned and healthy complexion, huge, luminously brown eyes and a dainty snubbed nose. Long, wavy, wheaten hair tumbled to the small of her back. She wore a simple white cotton dress, sleeveless, unbuttoned at the front to display a shallow cleavage and decorated with embroidered swirls around the open neckline. A polished black stone hung on a leather thong around her throat. She would have looked the epitome of sophisticated elegance but for the clumpy pink, purple and lime green floral wellington boots and supple leather utility belt slung low around her hips, its pockets and pouches stuffed with gardening tools, balls of twine and assorted horticultural paraphernalia.
    â€˜Hi, Jenny. Been rooting around the veggies again?’
    â€˜Of course. You don’t think they grow that big without help, do you? Hello, Sandra. Had any cock recently?’
    â€˜Jenny Clarke, the state of my sex life is not on today’s agenda,’ observed Sandra with a sniff.
    â€˜So no change there, then,’ sniggered Jenny. ‘Have you thought about trying a girl? Might have more luck.’
    â€˜Men may be idiots, but women are completely insane,’ Sandra declared irritably, unappreciative of Jenny’s radical suggestion. ‘I think I’ll stick with the idiots.’
    â€˜Hi, Jen,’ said Maggie, hugging her friend briefly. ‘Leave her be. She’ll never bat for the other side. Take it from me.’
    They walked through to the kitchen. ‘Right, let’s get the important things out of the way first,’ said Doreen ‘What’s for lunch?’
    â€˜I’ve some broccoli and roasted almond soup on the go with fresh crusty bread.’
    â€˜Sounds great. I’m going to need some feeding.’ Maggie’s occasional sojourns into the mystical realm always left her feeling peckish, particularly since she never ate beforehand, to intensify the effect of the experience.
    â€˜Time for tea first?’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Doreen firmly. ‘Is the Oracle prepared?’
    â€˜We always keep it ready, Gaia, you know that. A new batch of branches arrived last week.’
    â€˜Good. It’s a bit quiet around here. Where’s the rest of the gang?’
    â€˜Downstairs – where else?’
    â€˜No need to disturb them for the moment. You know how engrossed they get. They’ll be up for lunch.’
    â€˜They will,’ agreed Jenny. ‘Are you staying all day, Gaia, or do you need to get back?’
    â€˜We’ll see how it goes. Sophie and Bex are covering the salon.’
    â€˜I’m doing sea bass and roasting some vegetables fresh from the garden for supper, if that’ll help make up your mind.’
    â€˜Tempting. I suppose I could spare the time. I’ll call Bernie and let him know.’
    â€˜Grand. That’ll be all six of us!’ Jenny loved her cooking.
    Opulent sixteenth-century country residences were invariably provided with extensive kitchens, and Temple Hall was no exception. The high-ceilinged room was long and filled with sunlight which fell in through tall, curtained windows. A massive fireplace filled the end wall, with iron-fronted ovens of varying sizes and complexity arranged on either side of the hearth. Copper-bottomed saucepans hung from thick bars set above the