Lead piping in the loggia
Sarah breezed in. Hot from the London train. Pleased to escape from an editorial meeting. Clive, the CEO of The Pretentious Press, was a bore. Sarah, a commissioning editor, had had enough. She’d decided to go freelance. Tomorrow she’d give him her notice.
Her rather grand family home in old Surrey was a haven from Clive, lazy authors, poor sales, and badly prepared proofs and typescripts.
Since retiring from art dealing, her father had taken up freelance proofreading. To keep the roof on, he said jokingly. But he meant it. He was a hopeless dealer. Without proofreading and some copy-editing he and his wife would have to sell up and move to their farmhouse in Umbria.
“Hi Mummy! You OK? Daddy in the loggia?”
“Hello darling. You look done in. G & T?… Yes, I think so. Poring over his proofs, poor lamb.”
“Mmm, please. I’ll just take Daddy this new manuscript. Murder mystery. He’ll love it. Like the money, too. Pay for a few Welsh slates.”
…
The loggia, a colonnaded gallery leading off the dining room, was perfect for proofreading. Tranquil, airy, and lit by art nouveau wall lights.
Tarquin Trumper, as always, was seated at the north end where a philadelphus wafted its orange scent across his Regency desk.
At first Sarah didn’t notice the pool of blood. But when her Jimmy Choos skidded on the Italian marble she looked down in horror. Then at her father, slumped over his blotter, a neat small crater in his head. By his chair a length of lead piping. Instinctively, Sarah gathered up the proofs trying to keep them away from the blood. Her shoes were ruined. She returned to the kitchen to find her mother arranging lilies in a Lalique vase.
“Make it a large one, please, Mummy.”
Editor’s note
Loggias are not ideal for proofreading. They can be prey to the elements and insects. Murder is not a hazard associated with editorial work or loggias.
Verandahs, or verandas, are no better for publishing work. In fact, worse, being even more prone to wind, rain and sudden leaks.