As the leaves turn golden and the air crisps with autumn’s embrace, there’s no better time to curl up with stories that mirror the season’s spirit—tales of transformation, rediscovery, and cozy escapes. Dive into our curated Autumn Book Picks from Natalie Hush, where vibrant worlds unfold from sun-soaked cruises to urban intrigues, each one a perfect companion for those lengthening evenings by the fireside.
Escape the chill of autumn with Destination Desirable by Natalie Hush, a sun-drenched chick-lit romance that whisks you away on a luxurious cruise through Asia’s exotic ports—from Bangkok’s bustling streets to Bali’s idyllic beaches. Follow British couple Paula and Walt as they navigate fading sparks amid vibrant skylines and turquoise waters, crossing paths with a cast of intriguing travelers: a glamorous French actress rediscovering her past, a former celebrity seeking reinvention, and a passionate blogger championing eco-adventures. Amid flirtations, rekindled passions, and unexpected twists, this heartwarming tale explores love, loss, and second chances against a backdrop of tropical splendor. Ideal for cozy fall evenings, it’s an escapist delight that leaves you yearning for warmer horizons.
In Best Regards by Natalie Hush, Sadie confronts grief, family discord, and self-discovery after her renowned architect father’s death. Amid inheritance disputes with her brothers Scott and Piers, she transforms their historic Chiswick estate into a vibrant community art hub, blending Damian’s legacy of innovative design with her vision for connection and creativity. As professional projects take her from Bath’s serene renovations to Dubai’s ambitious sustainable developments, Sadie navigates a tangled romance with project manager Alex, complicated by his ex Ming’s manipulations. This poignant novel explores themes of resilience, architectural passion, and personal reinvention, weaving a tale of loss, love, and the art of building a future.
In Elysian Fire by Natalie Hush, fired PR powerhouse Tyche Papadopoulos flees London’s corporate chaos for Corfu’s sun-drenched shores, seeking solace in turquoise coves and olive groves. But paradise hides peril: entangled with charming yet shady hotel manager Norman, resilient fitness guru Agaia, and brooding olive oil heir Zane, Tyche uncovers a ruthless developer’s plot to sabotage local treasures for mega-resorts. As alliances form and passions ignite amid arson threats, hidden agendas, and island secrets, Tyche transforms from heartbroken escapee to fierce guardian of Corfu’s soul. This sizzling crime romance weaves suspense, steamy encounters, and themes of resilience and reinvention against Greece’s enchanting backdrop— an irresistible page-turner for autumn evenings that leaves you craving ouzo and adventure.
In Blossom Hill by Natalie Hush, ambitious German interior design student Mia relocates to London, chasing dreams amid a chilly romance with boyfriend Bo and a serendipitous encounter with charming real estate agent Jason. Juggling studies, quirky flatmates, and cultural clashes, Mia teams up with classmates—Mick the visionary, Mac the bold, Versa the fiery Russian, and Aisha the elegant Egyptian—to transform a rundown Kensington space into Blossom Hill, a vibrant fashion emporium blending global styles from Asian florals to American sweet girl chic. As rivalries flare, scandals erupt (including a “wanted” dress heist), and passions ignite, Mia navigates heartbreak, entrepreneurship, and self-discovery in the city’s whirlwind. This uplifting tale of creativity, friendship, and second chances blooms with heart, making it a cozy, inspiring read for autumn’s reflective vibes.
Dive into the rhythmic heartbeat of urban intrigue with City Cadence: Pulse of the Current by Natalie Hush. In a transformed Frankfurt, journalist Nyssa reunites with old friends amid rooftop pools and city secrets, reminiscing about vibrant 90s parties while navigating present-day corruption. Teaming with enigmatic crypto visionary Zillion, she uncovers a web of fraud involving shady mayor Tariq, insurance scams, and illicit red-light empires—all tied to volatile digital currencies and AI manipulations. As alliances form, scandals erupt, and romances spark, Nyssa fights for her city’s soul, blending nostalgia, empowerment, and reinvention. This gripping tale of resilience, hidden agendas, and second chances pulses with energy, making it an enthralling autumn escape that echoes the season’s transformative spirit.
As you turn the final pages of these enchanting tales, we invite you to join the conversation—what’s your ultimate autumn read that captures the essence of falling leaves and introspective moments? Share your favorites in the comments below, whether it’s a classic cozy mystery, a heartfelt romance, or an unexpected gem like one from Natalie Hush’s collection. Your recommendations might just inspire someone’s next fireside escape!
Sadie carried on filling up the boxes, with old correspondence, and yet another photo album. The Holiday was from the early 80’s. Flipping the album open, she was greeted by the 80s in all its glory: her family, Damian with his wild hair and even wilder ideas, sprawled across beaches and mountains. A smile crept up her face as she started to reminisce about those wild, unpredictable holidays with Damian.
Every summer, Damian, with his boundless creativity, would plan these elaborate family getaways. He’d sketch out utopian beach houses or cabin retreats, each drawn with the precision of an architect but infused with the whimsy of a dreamer. Yet, like clockwork, Damian’s architectural genius would be summoned back to the city, leaving his first wife and kids—Scott, Piers, and Sadie—to fend off boredom with the remnants of his grand plans.
Take the year they rented a rustic cabin in the mountains. Damian had promised a ‘safari adventure’ in their backyard, complete with makeshift tents and a ‘wildlife spotting’ guide he’d drawn up. But midway through setting up their base camp, his phone buzzed. “Emergency meeting,” he’d sighed, packing his briefcase instead of the compass he was about to hand Scott.
His departure, though, left room for spontaneous fun. They’d turn the cabin into a fort, using Damian’s architectural sketches for inspiration, building defenses out of couch cushions and blankets. When Damian returned, his eyes lit up at the sight. “Looks like I missed the siege of Fort Sadie!” he’d exclaim, diving right into the game, making his tardiness part of the adventure.
There was the beach trip where Damian promised to build a sandcastle that would dwarf all others. After laying down the foundation, work called him back. His family, though initially disappointed, rallied. They completed the castle with a twist—a functioning water wheel made from plastic cups and a moat that actually held water, proudly showing Damian when he arrived, shell-shocked but delighted at the ingenuity.
These holidays, though peppered with Damian’s absences, were never short on magic. He’d return with stories of towering skyscrapers or historic renovations, transforming his work tales into bedtime stories, each ending with him promising, “Next time, I’ll stay.” And when he did, those moments were golden—teaching Scott to fish with a makeshift rod, or playing ‘hide and not seek’ with Piers, where Damian would pretend to be terrible at finding them.
Sadie, the youngest and most imaginative, would always have a new game or story ready for when Damian came back. And Damian, with his architect’s eye, would find a way to make even the simplest idea into a masterpiece.
As Sadie closed the album, she felt a bit of melancholy. The holidays with Damian were a mix of anticipation, disappointment, and then, pure joy. His comings and goings taught them resilience, creativity, and the art of making the most out of every moment. Even now, as she packed her life into boxes, she held onto the lesson that with a bit of creativity, any moment could turn into an adventure, even in the face of unexpected changes.
*
She opened another album to a page that transported Sadie back to that summer, the one where their vacation home was an ancient, ivy-clad farmhouse next to Madame Role’s property. She remembered every detail: the creaky floors, the smell of old wood, and the distinct French charm that enveloped the place. And not to forget, the smell of the dung heap right next to the terrace upon arrival. Luckily, this had been removed two days later. Otherwise, that holiday would have stunk up everyone’s nose.
Madame Role, with her no-nonsense approach, taught Sadie the art of rabbit skinning, a skill as much about respect as it was about survival. That evening, the rabbit, seasoned with herbs from Madame Role’s garden, was the star of the village fête, its aroma wafting through the twilight, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses.
Meanwhile, Scott and Piers, ever the adventurers, had discovered a neighboring field with two old bulls. Their afternoon was spent in what could only be described as a comedic ballet of bull-chasing, where the bulls showed more interest in grass than in the boys’ antics.
The highlight, though, was the long, leisurely dinner at the fête, where tradition dictated that everyone, even the youngest, partook in the wine, though for the kids, it was heavily diluted. The feast stretched on for hours under the stars, with courses that seemed endless, from the rabbit to local cheeses and crusty bread.
Damian, with his usual flair, became the life of the party, telling tales of their adventures with such drama that even Madame Role couldn’t help but smile. He’d recount the bull chase, the rabbit skinning, and the feast itself, weaving it all into a narrative that felt like a grand epic.
*
Sadie shut the album and sealed yet another box, then dragged them all to the old stable, now an empty garage. As she swung open the creaky door, sunlight poured through the skylight, illuminating dust motes in the air. “This could be an incredible gallery space,” she murmured to herself.
She immediately called Piers on his mobile. They had been tossing around the idea of converting part of these old stables into a quirky pub, paired with a gallery and an outdoor garden area. Piers, catching her excitement, had nearly forgotten about this particular space.
“You’re right, that old shed could be perfect! I’ll get a first draft of the plans together in a week,” he said, enthusiasm building. Sadie, in turn, promised to clear out the clutter, setting the stage for their transformation project.
“And remember our time in France? The village fête?” Sadie asked. “I just flipped through the album.” “Ah, yes, that fête with the rabbit and the never-ending wine.” Piers chuckled, the memory sparking.
“What if we did something like that here?” Sadie proposed. “Like, a monthly theme night, starting with French fare, with art to match?”
“A French night here, with the ambiance, the art… I’m all in. Let’s get this rolling,” he agreed, both now picturing their little piece of France coming alive in the stables.
*
Sadie was driving down the M4, her playlist on shuffle, when her phone cut through the music with Scott’s ringtone—a sound she was beginning to dread. “Have you found it? The will?” His voice was all business, no hellos.
“Nope, nothing,” Sadie sighed, her eyes still on the road. “Looked everywhere. It’s like it vanished into thin air.”
“Make sure you don’t toss anything out,” Scott insisted, his tone bordering on paranoid.
“It’s all in boxes in the garage. You can sift through if you want,” Sadie said, trying to keep her cool.
“And the funeral, it’s all sorted?”
“Pretty much. I’m driving back to Bath now, then I’ll be back by Friday. Oh, and your dish… I’ll see if I can swing it.”
Scott then went off on one of his ‘don’t change anything’ rants. He seemed to think his ex’s son moving in would magically keep everything as it was.
“Well, he hasn’t said he wants to, and we’ve decided already. But hey, the upstairs could still be up for rent,” Sadie interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from a dead end.
They hashed out the funeral guest list, and Sadie finally pulled into Bath in the late afternoon. The call had left her drained, so she treated herself to a café visit—salad and a drink, the perfect antidote to a Scott-induced headache.
*
The next morning, Sadie got down to work on her piece about the Crescent View Complex. She lucked out with a quick interview with a builder and managed to draft something decent. She fired it off to Alex. His reply was late, from somewhere in Dubai, all professional. He’d set up a meet with Ming Ray Wong, their PR manager, for next week. Sadie couldn’t help but feel a sting; Alex’s distance seemed deliberate. But then, with everything going on, maybe it was for the best.
She then hit a snag with the contractors. Those who’d worked with her dad, the ‘star architect’, seemed less than thrilled to work for her. Gender, age, or just plain old snobbery, it didn’t matter the reason. “Guess I’m not the celebrity they hoped for,” she muttered to herself.
But Sadie wasn’t one to give up. She made more calls, sent more emails, and by the end of the day, she had a new team ready to go, proving that there are still people out there who value the job over the name attached to it.
Tyche’s sandals clicked against Kerkyra’s cobblestone alleys, the afternoon sun painting the pastel facades in shades of peach and gold. She and Susan had left Agaia’s Apothecary with bags of rose-scented creams and an invite to Zane’s taverna night, but Tyche’s mind kept circling back to Zane’s hazel eyes and the quiet conviction in his voice. Not just land—it’s our history. His words felt like a challenge, tugging at her PR instincts and something deeper—maybe her own need for a cause worth fighting for.
Susan was in her element, snapping photos of wrought-iron balconies and chipped frescoes. “This city’s a designer’s fever dream,” she said, pausing to sketch a Venetian archway curling like a lover’s arm. “Corfu’s got Greek soul with Italian swagger. My client’s villa needs this.”
Tyche dodged a scooter that zipped past with a cheeky honk. “You’re basically looting Kerkyra’s DNA. Should I call the culture cops?”
Susan smirked, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. “Only if they arrest me with a shot of ouzo. Come on, let’s keep wandering before we’re too stuffed with baklava to move.”
Kerkyra’s old town was a labyrinth of contradictions: tourist traps next to timeless tavernas, chaotic scooters weaving through serene squares. Laundry fluttered above narrow streets, where shops sold everything from olive wood carvings to knockoff Ray-Bans. The air was a heady cocktail of espresso, grilled octopus, and sea salt, with a stray cat eyeing Tyche’s souvlaki wrapper like it owned the place. She felt like she’d stepped into a living postcard, one with a heartbeat—kids chasing pigeons, old men bickering over backgammon, a bouzouki’s twang floating from a café.
They wandered past the Church of Saint Spyridon, its red-domed bell tower piercing the sky. The saint’s feast day was nearing, and the square hummed with prep: vendors stacking honey-dipped loukoumades, musicians tuning mandolins, nuns arranging icons with quiet reverence. Tyche paused at a stall selling silver amulets etched with Spyridon’s face, their weight grounding her.
“Saint Spyridon’s the island’s rock star,” Susan said, noticing her interest. “Patron saint, miracle guy. Locals parade his relics four times a year—think Coachella with more incense.”
Tyche bought an amulet, its cool metal sparking a wry thought. “Miracles, huh? I could use one for my career.” She kept her tone playful, but the ache of NetSphere’s betrayal lingered, her future as murky as an unfiltered Instagram post.
Susan nudged her. “You don’t need miracles, Tyche. You’ve got brains and charm. Corfu’s got a way of fixing what’s broken.”
*
Hunger led them to a taverna in the Campiello district, its tables spilling under grapevines. The owner, Yiannis, a wiry man with a mustache that could star in a Western, greeted them like family. “Ladies! My kleftiko will make you stay in Corfu forever!” he boomed, delivering plates of slow-cooked lamb that melted like a dream.
Over lunch, Yiannis spun tales of Corfu’s past: Venetian forts fending off Ottoman raids, British quirks like cricket and ginger beer, and kantades, the island’s soulful street serenades that could coax tears from a stone. Tyche’s PR brain lit up—Corfu: Where Every Corner Sings—but she pushed it aside, savoring the lamb and Susan’s story of a client who demanded a massive chandelier in a silk-walled boudoir.
Then, the table next to them erupted in heated Greek, the word “Helios” cutting through. Tyche leaned in, catching Yiannis muttering about “greedy bastards” as he cleared plates.
Susan, ever the gossip hound, pounced. “Trouble, Yiannis?”
He sighed, his mustache sagging. “Always. Helios Resorts, big hotel chain, wants to swallow Corfu. They buy land, build concrete beasts, kill our soul. Now they’re after olive groves near Sidari. Good people there, like Zane and Agaia.”
Tyche’s pulse quickened. “Zane? The boutique hotel guy?”
Yiannis nodded, oblivious to her connection. “Yes, their family’s land. Been there forever. Helios offers money, makes threats. Vultures.”
Susan shot Tyche a Told you so glance. Tyche’s mind raced—Zane’s fight was bigger than one grove. Her PR instincts whispered: viral campaign, hashtag #SaveCorfu, maybe a docuseries. Chill, Tyche. You’re on holiday. But the idea stuck like honey on her fingers.
*
Post-lunch, they drifted toward the Liston, the grand arcade where locals sipped coffees under Parisian-style arches. That’s when Kerkyra threw them a curveball. A trio of musicians appeared in the square, their kantades band—a guitar, an accordion, and a violin—striking up a melody that stopped Tyche in her tracks. The lead singer, a lanky man in his forties with salt-and-pepper curls and eyes like a poet’s, sang in Greek, his voice rich and raw. The song was a lament, love and loss woven into every note, and though Tyche didn’t understand the words, her chest tightened.
A small crowd gathered, tourists and locals swaying together. The singer—Nikos, she overheard—locked eyes with Tyche, his smile warm as he gestured for her to join. Susan nudged her. “Chase the island’s pulse!”
Tyche laughed, half-embarrassed, but let Nikos pull her into the circle. He handed her a tambourine, showing her the rhythm with a wink. “Feel the island, koukla,” he said, his accent thick. She fumbled at first, but the music took over, her hips swaying, the tambourine jangling in time. The crowd clapped, Susan whooping like a teenager. For three glorious minutes, Tyche was part of Kerkyra’s heartbeat, her worries—NetSphere, Norman, her blank future—melting into the song.
When the music stopped, Nikos bowed theatrically, pressing her hand. “You have Corfu in your soul,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “Come back for Spyridon’s feast. We sing again.”
Tyche blushed, handing back the tambourine. “Deal. You’ve got a fan.” As she rejoined Susan, her heart felt lighter, like she’d borrowed the island’s resilience. Nikos’s words lingered—Corfu in your soul—and she wondered if he was right.
Susan slung an arm around her. “Look at you, tambourine queen. That’s one for the memoir.”
Tyche laughed, but the moment had shifted something. Kerkyra wasn’t just a backdrop—it was a mirror, reflecting her hunger for purpose, connection, maybe even a fight like Zane’s.
*
Their final stop was the market, a riot of colors and smells: pomegranates stacked like jewels, jars of amber honey, vendors hawking evil-eye charms and embroidered linens. Tyche haggled for a bottle of kumquat liqueur, channeling her inner market pro, while Susan nabbed dried oregano “better than London’s best.” As they headed to the Fiat, Tyche’s phone buzzed—Norman: Dinner tomorrow? I owe you that 10/10 experience.
Her stomach flipped, but Yiannis’s Helios rant and Zane’s quiet resolve clouded her thoughts. Norman was a puzzle, and not the fun kind. Susan caught her staring at the screen.
“Mr. Smooth again?” Susan asked, unlocking the car.
“Yup,” Tyche said, pocketing her phone. “I’ll deal with him later. Right now, I’m all about Zane’s taverna tonight. You in?”
Susan grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it. Kerkyra’s got you hooked, and I’m betting Zane’s place seals the deal.”
*
As they drove back to Paleokastritsa, the sea glowing under a tangerine sky, Tyche clutched her Spyridon amulet. Kerkyra had woven its spell—the kantades still hummed in her veins, Zane and Agaia’s fight sparked her curiosity, and Susan’s faith in her felt like a lifeline. Corfu wasn’t just a holiday. It was a call to something bigger.
The runway at Gatwick Airport shimmered under a rare December sun, but Tyche Papadopoulos felt like she was traversing a personal blizzard. Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket as she dragged her carry-on toward the plane, the words ‘You’re fired’ still ringing in her ears like a bad pop song. A week before Christmas, no less. She’d been the PR manager at NetSphere, an IT network provider that prided itself on “connectivity solutions” but apparently not on human decency. Derek, the NetSphere boss, muttered the news with a grimace, citing “restructuring.” Just the next morning, he sent a new LinkedIn invitation. Tyche knew better. She’d called him out for his lazy campaign ideas last month, and he’d been gunning for her ever since.
She ignored the buzzing phone and squinted at the plane ahead, a sleek jet bound for Corfu. Her pre-booked Christmas holiday was now her lifeline—a chance to escape London’s grey drizzle and her imploding career. Corfu, with its emerald hills and sapphire seas, promised sun, ouzo, and a reset. Tyche adjusted her oversized sunglasses, channeling her inner Audrey Hepburn despite the pit in her stomach. You’ve got this, she told herself. New chapter, new Tyche.
The phone buzzed again. She sighed and fished it out, seeing “Frank” on the screen. Her ex-colleague, a data analyst with a heart bigger than his Excel spreadsheets, was probably checking in. She answered as she joined the boarding queue, the wind whipping her dark curls.
“Tyche, what the hell happened?” Frank’s voice was equal parts worry and gossip-hound. “Derek’s spinning some nonsense about you flaking. Said it was a ‘woman thing.’ Can you believe that prick?”
Tyche snorted, earning a glance from the posh couple ahead of her. “Oh, I believe it. Derek’s ego is a medical marvel. I’m fine, Frank. Just boarding my flight to Corfu. Holiday mode activated.”
“Corfu? Swanky. You sure you’re okay? I mean, getting canned right before Christmas…”
“I’m peachy,” Tyche lied, her voice bright as the neon safety vest of the ground crew. “I’ll sip cocktails, charm some locals, and plot my comeback. Talk later, yeah?”
She hung up before Frank could pry further, her bravado wavering. The truth? She was gutted. NetSphere had been her proving ground, where she’d turned dry tech jargon into viral campaigns. Now, at thirty-two, she was jobless and single, with only a suitcase and a dream of baklava to her name.
The flight was a blur of recycled air and a rom-com she half-watched. Tyche’s mind churned: What’s next? Freelance PR? Start my own agency? Join a goat farm? By the time the plane touched down at Corfu’s Ioannis Kapodistrias Airport, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in shades of tangerine and rose. She stepped onto the tarmac, the warm island breeze wrapping around her like a hug. For the first time all day, she exhaled.
*
The Grotta Verde, a five-star resort perched above Paleokastritsa’s turquoise coves, was everything the brochure promised: whitewashed walls draped in bougainvillea, infinity pools that seemed to spill into the Ionian Sea, and a lobby that smelled of citrus and wealth. Tyche checked in, her mood lifting as the receptionist, a cheerful woman named Maria, handed her a welcome mimosa.
“Your room has a sea view, Ms. Papadopoulos,” Maria said, her English accented with Corfu’s musical lilt. “And tonight’s cocktail hour is at the rooftop bar. Enjoy!”
Tyche grinned, sipping the mimosa. “You had me at rooftop bar.”
Her room was a slice of paradise—crisp linens, a balcony overlooking the glittering sea, and a minibar she planned to raid later. She swapped her travel-worn jeans for a flowy white dress, radiating mythic grace. As she headed to the rooftop, the stress of London felt a world away.
The bar was buzzing with holidaymakers: bronzed couples, a gaggle of influencers snapping selfies, and a lone woman sketching in a notebook. Tyche grabbed a gin and tonic and slid onto a barstool, her eyes scanning the crowd. The sketching woman caught her attention—mid-forties, with a chic bob and a kaftan that screamed “I have a Pinterest board for everything.” Tyche, never one to shy away from a chat, leaned over.
“Love your vibe,” she said, nodding at the sketchbook. “You an artist?”
The woman looked up, her smile warm. “Interior designer, actually. Susan. Just doodling some ideas inspired by this place. The colors here are unreal.”
“Tyche,” she replied, clinking her glass against Susan’s wine. “PR manager. Well, ex-PR manager as of this morning. I’m here to drown my sorrows in ouzo and sunshine.”
Susan laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Ouch, rough day? Well, you picked the right spot to rebound. Corfu’s magic. I’m here scouting for a client’s villa redo. You ever been?”
“First time. I booked this trip on a whim last month, and now it’s my life raft.” Tyche’s tone was light, but Susan’s knowing nod suggested she caught the undercurrent.
They chatted about Corfu’s beaches, Susan’s design projects, and Tyche’s knack for spinning tech geekery into sexy ad campaigns. The gin and the view were working their magic, and Tyche felt her spark returning. Maybe this trip wasn’t just an escape—it was a chance to reinvent.
Then, a commotion broke the rooftop’s buzz. Two police officers marched through the crowd, their radios crackling. Tyche and Susan exchanged a glance as the officers approached a young woman at the bar, her blonde hair tangled and her eyes wild. She was arguing loudly in accented English, something about “my sister” and “not fair.” The officers escorted her out, ignoring her protests.
“What was that about?” Tyche muttered, craning her neck.
Susan leaned in, her voice low. “Heard from the bartender earlier—some drama with the yoga instructor’s sister. Apparently, she had a meltdown, maybe schizophrenia-related. The hotel manager kicked them both out.”
Tyche frowned. “Harsh. Kicking out the instructor too? That’s cold.”
“Welcome to paradise,” Susan said dryly, sipping her wine.
*
The next morning, Tyche woke to sunlight streaming through her balcony doors. She’d planned to join the resort’s yoga class, craving a stretch and some Zen, but a sign on the studio door read: Yoga cancelled until further notice. She groaned, remembering the previous night’s drama. As she turned to leave, a woman with a sleek ponytail and a fitness tracker jogged up.
“Hey, you here for yoga?” the woman asked, her accent a mix of Greek and something else. “I’m Agaia. I’m covering the class since… well, you know.”
Tyche nodded, intrigued. “Tyche. Yeah, I heard about the sister thing. You’re a lifesaver.”
Agaia grinned, unlocking the studio. “I’m a fitness instructor on the side, so I figured I’d step in. Come on, let’s get our om on.”
The class was small but lively, with Agaia leading a flow that left Tyche sweaty and grinning. Agaia’s energy was infectious—part drill sergeant, part stand-up comic. As they rolled up their mats, Tyche lingered, curious about her new instructor.
“You’re not just a fitness guru, are you?” Tyche teased. “What’s your deal?”
Agaia laughed, wiping her brow. “Oh, I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I help run my family’s boutique hotel down the coast, sell handmade beauty products in town, and apparently, I’m the resort’s backup yogi now. You?”
“Unemployed PR whiz, fresh off a corporate guillotine,” Tyche said, keeping it light. “Here to figure out what’s next.”
Agaia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Sounds like you need Corfu’s magic. Stick around, Tyche. This island has a way of shaking things up.”
*
That evening, Tyche joined Susan for dinner at the resort’s taverna, where fairy lights twinkled above tables laden with grilled octopus and tzatziki. The air hummed with laughter and clinking glasses, but Tyche’s attention kept drifting to the man weaving through the tables. Tall, with a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows and a smile that could sell toothpaste, he was clearly in charge. The staff snapped to attention as he passed, yet his vibe was more charming host than stuffy boss.
“That’s Norman,” Susan whispered, following Tyche’s gaze. “Hotel manager. Bit of a local legend. Word is, he knows every inch of this island.”
Tyche raised an eyebrow. “Good to know.”
Norman stopped at their table, his blue eyes locking onto Tyche’s. “Ladies, enjoying your evening?” His accent was British, polished but warm. “I’m Norman, your host at Grotta Verde. Anything I can do to make your stay unforgettable?”
Susan’s lips twitched with amusement, but Tyche matched Norman’s oily charm. “Well, Norman, this pastitsada’s divine, but I’ve got to ask—where do locals go? You know, the spots off the guidebooks. I want to see the real Corfu. Any insider tips?”
His smile widened. “Plenty. How about a private tour tomorrow? I’ll show you spots the guidebooks miss.”
Tyche’s pulse quickened. Was he flirting? Or just doing his job? Either way, she was game. “Deal. But it better be good.”
“Oh, it will be,” Norman said, winking before moving on.
Susan nudged her. “Careful, Tyche. That one’s got trouble written all over him.”
Tyche laughed, sipping her wine. “Trouble’s my middle name.”
Back in London, Sadie dived into the sea of stuff that was once her dad’s life. She was on a mission to declutter, despite Scott’s latest text buzzing in her pocket, all caps and exclamation marks telling her to keep her hands off. She ignored his threats; the house was legally hers now. Well, he was right, the household itself, all movables, was equally to all three, but most of it was old stuff, and she had time now before she would start on her project. So what was she waiting for? She shrugged off Scott’s drama and got down to business, boxing up the past, each item a flashback from the good old days, their awkward teen phase, the heavy silence following their mom’s passing, up to Damian’s final bow.
The Roots
Under the table, she found this old-school photo—a timber shack in Chiswick from back in the day, tagged “Chiswick’s Barber Bros.” That was Granddad on Damian’s mom’s side. The little house was the oldest spot on the estate, now a cool archive where they stash old blueprints and 3D models. Much beloved by Piers, he is all about that vintage vibe.
The family had levelled up from the timber beginning, acquiring adjacent objects like snapping up the mansion next door and the one on the flip side. They had erected a modern architecture complex in between where Scott and Piers run their architecture office now. Scott’s deeply invested in AI and slick industrial design, while Piers? He’s old school, loves getting his hands dirty with wood.
Sadie stumbled upon some news clippings, the estate’s glow-up through time right there in black and white, stirring up old-school vibes.
Damian’s start was low-key—started as a carpenter, hit up night school for his A-levels, then jet-set to Germany for architecture studies. His career took off in the late’70s upon returning to Chiswick, where he converted the small timber house into his first office. From there, Damian’s reputation grew; he became known for his work on institutional projects which he and his partner secured through public tenders, architecture competitions, and exclusive refurbishments for London’s elite; though his early struggles were rarely discussed.
To Scott, Piers, and Sadie, Damian was mostly the big-shot architect, not the dad who’d show up for breakfast. They were largely raised by their mom, Damian was an absent figure his presence marked only by the summer holidays in France and Italy, or the rare family celebrations. His dedication was to his work; weekends, evenings, even holidays were spent at his drafting table or exploring architectural sites, sketchbook in hand.
Albums stacked high, each one a visual diary of those summers, with Damian always half in, half out, sketching some ancient column or archway, his passion for architecture clear as day, yet his family had to share him with his first love—his work.
*
As Sadie dug deeper into the layers of paperwork and mementos, she uncovered more than just the physical legacy of her father; she unearthed the emotional
ck of Damian’s life. Among the documents was a tattered letter from Damian’s father, a man whose words were as sharp as the tools he used in his own trade. The letter was filled with harsh critique, berating Damian for his singular focus on architecture. “You’ve got no time for anything else, boy. Not like your sister, who knows how to balance life,” his father had written, the ink almost cutting through the paper with its intensity.
Throughout Damian’s life, the comparison with his sister fueled both conflict and ambition, propelling his quest for architectural brilliance. Yet, amidst the harsh critiques, a different kind of letter emerged from a schoolteacher. It bluntly suggested that Damian might not advance academically and could not progress to the next class, but it offered an alternative: exit school with a recommendation for a carpentry apprenticeship, signed off with “Best Regards.”
Sadie held these contrasting pieces of paper, one a relic of familial disappointment, the other a beam of professional hope. Together, they painted a picture of Damian as a young man caught between expectation and passion, between familial duty and personal dreams. These letters were bookmarks in the story of Damian’s life, showcasing the pressures he faced and the support he occasionally found in unexpected places, steering him toward the path he would eventually carve for himself in the world of architecture.
Damian’s journey from apprentice to architect was not just a tale of personal triumph but became one of inspiring transformation within the architectural community. Upon establishing his firm in the UK with his partner, their breakthrough came with the design of the New Horizon Community Center. This project wasn’t just a building; it was a statement, an innovative blend of function and form that utilized sustainable materials and incorporated green spaces in ways previously unseen in urban architecture.
The New Horizon project was audacious. Damian wanted to create a space that felt alive, almost organic, where the community could not only gather but also grow together. The design included a rooftop pool and garden, which served as an urban oasis, and walls that could move to adapt the interior space for various events, from concerts to exhibitions.
Sadie, reminiscing, flipped through an old album to find the photograph from the opening day of the center. The building in the picture, with its sweeping curves and glass facade reflecting the sky, stood as a testament to Damian’s vision. The photo captured a moment of pride and joy, with Sadie herself, much younger, in mid-dance pose surrounded by her ballet group, their performance celebrating the harmony between architecture and art.
The success of New Horizon catapulted Damian’s office into the spotlight. Following this, they secured the contract for the Thames Riverside Development, an ambitious project to rejuvenate a derelict industrial area into a thriving residential and commercial zone. Here, Damian implemented his philosophy of ‘architecture as environment,’ focusing on creating spaces that encourage social interaction while preserving the historical essence of the location.
Damian’s architecture office thrived through these landmark projects, and his legacy was not just in the structures he built but in how those structures brought people together, fostering community in an increasingly fragmented world. Each project told a story of transformation, much like Damian’s own life, proving that with resilience, vision, and a touch of creativity, one could indeed sculpt the skyline and, in doing so, shape the future.
The project included walkways along the river, apartments with views that seemed to float on water, and communal areas that used recycled materials from the old factories, marrying past with future. The development not only won awards but also became a case study in urban regeneration.
Sadie remembered attending the launch of the Riverside project as well. This time, not as a performer, but as a guest, she saw firsthand how Damian’s work affected people’s lives, turning forgotten spaces into landmarks of community life.
Damian’s architectural philosophy deeply emphasized the importance of communication within living spaces, which led him to innovate in ways that traditional architects had not.
His signature approach was the open plan design, not merely for its aesthetic appeal but for its capacity to foster interactions. He believed that architecture should facilitate life’s dialogues, not just between family members but extending to neighbours, creating a broader sense of community within the urban fabric.
In the New Horizon Community Center, this was evident in the layout that encouraged spontaneous meetings and conversations. Corridors were designed to be wider than necessary, serving as impromptu meeting spots, and open spaces were interspersed with seating areas that invited people to pause, talk, or simply watch community life unfold.
However, it was in residential designs where Damian’s commitment to communication truly shone. His residential projects, especially those in the Thames Riverside Development, featured his novel concept of the gallery living room. This wasn’t just an ordinary open space; it was a carefully curated area within homes where the living room extended into a gallery-like space, often running along one side of the house with large windows or glass walls. Contrasting this openness there was also a little quaint a cozy nook such as a mezzanine.
This gallery style served multiple purposes. Visual Connection: It provided a visual link to the outside, connecting residents with the street or communal gardens, making the barrier between inside and outside feel porous, encouraging a sense of neighborhood. Social Hub: The gallery living room was designed to be the heart of the home where family members could interact not just with each other but potentially with passersby, turning everyday life into a social event.
Sadie remembered how Damian would explain his vision during community meetings or when showing potential buyers around. He’d say, “Architecture should not just house us; it should connect us. My designs are stages for life’s interactions.”
Back in Bath, Sadie could immerse herself in the serene embrace of nature, walking for hours with nothing but the sounds of birds and rustling leaves for company, offering panoramic views of the picturesque countryside. She adored the lively yet historic streets of Bath, its ancient waterside including the Roman Baths, and the literary legacy of Jane Austen, which infused the city with a timeless charm. Her home was nestled in one of the city’s characteristic yellow stone buildings, a small estate reimagined by Damian’s architecture firm. She had moved there upon returning from her expat stint in Singapore, grateful for Damian’s foresight; London’s soaring property prices had made his offer of a reserved flat an appealing sanctuary.
However, the tranquility of Bath was a stark contrast to the family discord following Damian’s funeral arrangements. Scott had turned volatile towards Sadie, especially as the inheritance dispute intensified. He felt disadvantaged by the estate’s division and now openly threatened Sadie’s claim to the house, despite the will still being in probate. Sadie, meanwhile, had already begun clearing out old items and planning renovations, setting her sights on moving back to London. The estate, a lovingly restored heritage building in Chiswick, became the focal point of contention with Scott trying to impede every step she took.
With inheritance arrangements underway, Sadie spearheaded the efforts while Scott opposed every action, and Piers decided to withdraw for a while by taking a long holiday.
Amid this familial strife, Sadie’s professional life offered a reprieve. She secured a contract to document a renovation for her interior design blog—a project at the picturesque Lansdown Crescent in Bath. This assignment was to be a series of articles detailing the renovation’s progress weekly, providing not just creative engagement but also vital financial support. With Damian’s estate tied up in legal limbo, thanks to Scott’s objections, this project was crucial. Although each sibling had power of attorney, the lack of notarization left financial institutions wary, freezing assets.
This writing gig was more than just work; it was a buoy in turbulent waters, supplemented by the modest rent from her flat in the Bath estate, a small legacy from her father’s careful planning.
The quaint café, tucked away near the Pulteney Bridge, was the kind of place where the baristas knew your name. Sadie entered, the bell above the door tinkling softly, and scanned the room for the man she was to meet, Mr. Alex Chen, the project manager with a significant stake in the Lansdown Crescent renovation.
She spotted him at a corner table by the window, his profile sharp against the soft light filtering through the lace curtains. He stood as she approached, a smile breaking the seriousness of his features.
“Sadie?” His voice had a smooth, transatlantic cadence, hinting at his dual heritage.
“Alex, I presume?” Sadie extended her hand, which he took with a firm yet gentle grip.
“Please,” he gestured to the seat opposite. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the house special. I hope you like it.”
“Adventurous. I like that,” she said, settling into her chair. “So, your project at Lansdown Crescent, it’s quite ambitious. Restoring history while infusing modernity.”
Alex nodded, his eyes lighting up with passion for the topic. “Exactly. It’s about preserving the soul of Bath while offering something… unexpected. Like this place,” he gestured around, “hidden but full of character.”
Sadie smiled, “I can see why you’d pick here for our meeting. It’s off the beaten path, much like your approach to renovations.”
Their drinks arrived, a concoction of local herbs and exotic spices. “To new projects,” Alex toasted, lifting his cup.
“And to uncovering hidden gems,” Sadie added, clinking her cup against his.
They sipped, and Alex leaned in, his tone conversational yet imbued with a flirty edge, “So, Sadie, what’s your angle? You write about interiors, but what really gets your gears turning?”
“Transformations,” she replied without hesitation. “Taking something with history, with stories etched into its walls, and giving it a new chapter. Much like people, I suppose.”
“Intriguing,” Alex mused. “And do you believe people can be renovated as easily as buildings?”
Sadie laughed, “Perhaps with more resistance. Buildings don’t argue back.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and inviting. “True. But where’s the fun in that? Resistance can lead to the most interesting outcomes.”
Their conversation flowed effortlessly from architecture to art, from the bustling markets of Asia where Alex spent much of his time, to the serene English countryside they both appreciated for different reasons.
“You’ve got that globetrotter vibe,” Sadie noted, enjoying the dynamic exchange. “How do you balance it with the stillness projects like Crescent View require?”
“It’s about grounding,” Alex said, his gaze lingering on her. “Finding anchors in both worlds. Do you find that writing serves as your anchor?”
“It’s more of a sail,” Sadie corrected playfully. “It takes me places. But yes, it keeps me connected, much like this project might.”
“Well then, let’s navigate these waters together,” Alex proposed, his eyes holding a mix of professional interest and something more personal.
“I look forward to it,” Sadie responded, feeling the spark of a connection that promised more than just a professional relationship. “Let’s make some history at Lansdown Crescent.”
Their meeting extended well beyond business talks, laced with laughter and the undercurrent of mutual attraction, setting the stage for what was to come.
Sadie chose to walk home despite Alex’s offer for a ride. The evening air was refreshing, and she needed time to think. Strolling along the Upper Borough Walls, past quaint little shops, she felt a whirl of emotions. Alex wasn’t at all what she had anticipated—a typical middle-aged construction manager. Instead, he was youthful, worldly, with a sharp wit that had captivated her during their coffee conversation.
However, her pondering was cut short by the jarring ring of her phone. It was Scott, and his voice was a cold splash of reality. He had unilaterally rescheduled the funeral, his tone aggressive as he laid down the law about the family estate. “You’re not to move anything into the house; it’s not officially yours,” he barked, despite the fact that the house had been Sadie’s in all but name for the past fifteen years, and with Damian’s passing, her full ownership was clear.
Scott’s decision to push the funeral back by four weeks meant redoing all the arrangements—a needless hassle, yet Sadie, unruffled, agreed. His threats about financial help were hollow; she knew her rights, but the conversation left her with a familiar frustration. She sighed, continuing her walk, trying to recapture the lightness she’d felt moments before with Alex.
Sadie stood outside the sterile hospital room, her father’s dismissive words still echoing in her ears. “She can go now, if she wants,” Damian had said, with the casual indifference one might use to shoo away a fly. She turned to leave, throwing back a quip, “Keep your ears up, keep fit,” as if she were heading to a gym session rather than potentially away from her father’s last moments.
The hospital corridors felt colder as she walked away, her mind replaying their conversation. Damian, ever the pragmatist, had managed to discuss his girlfriend’s surgery, his son’s bizarre relationship, and his disdain for Sadie’s presence all in one breath.
Back in her car, Sadie reflected on the absurdity of it all. “I hope these aren’t his last words,” she thought, “Here was a man, my father, whose final words to me could’ve been penned by a motivational poster gone wrong.” Not exactly the ‘I love you’ every daughter dreams of,” she muttered to herself, starting the engine with more force than necessary.
Her phone buzzed—a message from her brother Scott, with his usual demands.
Sadie drove, not towards her small flat in Bath, but towards Chiswick, the family home that now loomed like a battleground. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, who had passed away over twenty years ago, and had insisted Sadie should inherit her car, fearing her daughter might never afford one. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom,” Sadie said aloud, her voice laced with both sarcasm and sorrow.
Arriving at the house, she walked through the door, the silence greeting her like an old friend. This house, filled with architectural accolades and cold memories, was now hers to deal with. She remembered her father’s disdain for her career choices, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, it’s nice that you write, but you don’t have to show it to anyone.”
Later that evening, after a call where Damian seemed unusually sentimental, discussing art and his past works, Sadie felt a rare connection. But the warmth of that conversation didn’t last. The next morning, Damian called to say that doctors had informed him he didn’t have long to live; his health was deteriorating, and his heart would eventually stop. Shocked, Sadie promised to come to the hospital immediately so he wouldn’t have to be alone. Through tears, Damian spoke about his inheritance, pleading, “Please promise me, that you kids won’t fight over the inheritance.” Sadie had only seen her father crying twice; once when her mother was diagnosed with cancer, and now.
Saturday morning, the call came. “Your father passed away early this morning at 6 a.m., peacefully,” the hospital nurse said over the phone. Damian was gone.
Within two hours of hearing the sad news, Scott’s first words were, “The family home should have been left to me, not Sadie. She wasn’t even in a position to handle the finances. I would be so much better suited.”
Sadie, ever the peacemaker, promised to honor their father’s wishes, though she knew the battle for the estate was just beginning. It was then, in response to Scott’s comment that she couldn’t handle the estate, that Sadie decided to transform this house into something more than just a monument to Damian’s ego. The architecture was undeniably cool, with its sleek lines and modern design, but it lacked the coziness that makes a house a home. She’d breathe life into those spaces, adding warmth to complement the impressive structure, making it not only a showcase of Damian’s vision but also a place filled with laughter and comfort.
On February 25th, the first COVID-19 case was confirmed in Switzerland, in a man who had previously visited an event in Milan. At the time, the city had the highest death toll. The new virus that first appeared in a cluster in the Chinese city of Wuhan was the cause of the respiratory illness, the WHO World Health Organization confirmed in January.
The Federal Law of Epidemics declared a State of Extraordinary Situation on March 16. Most stores were closed, and public gatherings and events were prohibited by March 20. Border crossings were gradually restricted by the government.
Portugal had declared the highest level of alert on March 12 and a state of emergency a few days later.
Portugal still declared a state of emergency on May 2nd, while Switzerland began easing restrictions in April.
Curfews were implied in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain. Between March and May 2020, almost every country in the world went into lockdown, with Australia and Argentina imposing the most stringent restrictions. Only Sweden and South Korea chose a different path.
Paige returned to Portugal in June, after the restrictions were lifted, and spent the summer mostly alone at the Gunicho Resort. They had decided to postpone the opening because it was simply not a good time. Despite the fact that the beach was packed with surfers who were enjoying the freedom of the beach after such a restricted spring season.
The resort was finally set up and finished, and it looked stunning. Paige enjoyed the tranquility during the day. The nights she worked underground, sort of, at times in the darknet, on their immersive boat trips in 3D in the metaverse.
Melia, who had recently split up with Jo, joined her in July. She had also left the Almada villa. Following a new scandal, Jo was now the CEO of the greatest service company. He had managed to remove the entire board, which was then replaced with a new set of board members with him as head.
The story had made the news and was the only story that could have overshadowed the virus issue; there were almost no other topics in the entire world besides this Corona virus.
Jo, who was always looking for a way to climb the social ladder by any means possible, had finally found his winning lottery ticket.
The Performance Service Corporation’s headquarters were the target of a raid at the beginning of the year.
Whispers filled the air, alleging a covert alliance of five powerful corporations. Their aim? Taking price control and dominating the market for service center services. The shocking aftermath shook the business world to its core, prompting the immediate suspension of the entire board. Market shares were distributed according to the framework designed to run a cartel. The subsequent accusations echoed the gravity of European laws, further intensifying the drama.
Of course, Jo was heavily involved in the cartel operation, but he had cut himself a great deal for ratting the whole thing, which resulted in him not only being exempt from prosecution, but also becoming the new CEO.
In this game, Jo and his wife played the happy, picture-perfect family, and Melia had to leave the Almeda villa. For Melia, everything had a price, and now that Jo was officially the father of her child, she had taken advantage of the situation to increase her alimony. She spent the majority of her time looking for new apartments and houses that met her standards.
Melia’s expectations? She went on to specify that the apartment be at least 150 square meters in size, have an ocean view, and be outfitted with high-end interiors and materials such as wooden flooring, marble and granite countertops, and even golden water faucets in the bathroom. Page chuckled heartily, joking that Melia would never find an apartment that met her standards. She advised her to buy an older estate in the Baixa-Chado or Principe Real areas and restore it to its former glory. They could pay off the mortgage by renting out four of the units and keeping two for themselves. The typical height was three floors, with each floor housing two apartments.
“That’s brilliant! Then I can redo the apartment the way I want to.” Melia began to warm up to the idea.
“Just knock down some walls and rearrange the furniture to your heart’s content, and how about that view? Not the ocean, but the Tagus instead.” With that, Paige remarked, “So, when we are good on our next virtual weekend round, then this is still in the picture, isn’t it?”
Now that Paige was re-excited about Lisbon’s real estate market, the two of them began to look a little more closely for potential objects.
Paige was captivated by the scenery they passed through on the train; after all, this was a winter paradise, and the stark contrast to Portugal’s natural beauty was striking. She looked forward to sporty, cool snow days and cozy afternoons, sparkling wine by the fireplace, pool time, jacuzzi, and scorching nights.
They intended to spend the first few weeks of the year in a cozy Chalet near Verbier. After passing through Zürich on their way to Verbier, the two looked out the window to see the Earth dressed in a white, glittering coat and the mountains beginning to appear on the horizon.
Paige received some wishes from @whatShallWeDo while in Switzerland for the new year, which made her smile; the two then discussed the development of their new platform and artwork. They also discussed the anonymous donor and Shard platform members. While Paige pondered the mystery, Terry had a pretty good guess but refused to reveal who it was.
Paige found it fascinating to observe how the shadows and sunlight shifted throughout the day in Verbier, Switzerland on a Sunday afternoon. The view of the mountains during the day was one of grandeur and adventure, but at night it was one of calm and serenity, with the small village’s flickering lights providing comfort and protection. Even though nature is inherently complex, life here seemed relatively simple, possibly because the locals follow a more traditional rhythm that mimics the natural world. In contrast, the metropolitan areas like London and Lisbon were extremely fast-paced. People were always looking for the next big thing, the latest trends, and technological innovations. The pace was slower here. Nature dictated the pace of change, and the locals adapted with relative ease.
Terry had some business in Zürich, and it was easier for him to operate from Switzerland rather than constantly travel to Lisbon, so Paige agreed to stay a little longer than planned. The plan had been to return to Lisbon in May for the Guincho Beach opening. Paige relished the tranquility of a Swiss small-town village for the time being. On the other hand, Paige wondered what it would be like to live in such a place permanently. This was not an option for her, and she was already thinking about the next big thing. Paige joined the live chat with Shard and Terry to discuss their latest project, a digital setting for The Weekend, after @WhatShallWeDo sent a message.
It was the last day of the year, and the San Jorge Castle was hosting a fancy VIP party tonight. They’d spend the evening at the castle before boarding one of their secret boat trips at the Lisbon Cruise Port after midnight. Paige knew she wouldn’t wake up with Dinni in a room with a sea view this time because he was back with Melia; they had seen each other several times since September. Paige had her own love interests; she was still in touch with Terry, the guy from her September boat trip. A month ago, Paige visited the UK to meet with her new client, a UK media agency, and secure a top online advertising deal. Terry’s girlfriend was less amused because she had lost her part of the bargain. And, for whatever reason, she had cheated on Terry, and the two had broken up. Paige was still in contact with both for professional reasons, and her text flirtation continued with Terry. Paige was a little bummed that Terry did not make it to tonight’s party; she would have loved to see him.
The party was in full gear when Melia, Dinni, and Paige arrived. There were also some guys from the no-name company numero uno, including Melia’s and Paige’s colleagues, Dinni’s crew, and some more well-known Lisbon heads and celebrities. Some guests had their private salon, while there was also the main salon with a massive buffet, a crazy crowd, and some 90s beats from a popular DJ rocking on the turntable.
Paige and her friends had also reserved a separate room, the Lion Room. A long table, seating about twenty people, had been set up and was beautifully decorated in a mix of medieval, nostalgic, and modern designs.
Melia and Paige were stunned, the scenery was breathtaking, and the wild boys, who usually walked around in jeans, T-shirts, trainers, or a full-body neoprene suit on a board, were all dressed stylishly in white shirts and elegant suits. Melia was wrapped in a golden glam rock Etui dress designed by a Lisbon designer. Paige wore a short, sleeveless glam dress with rose pearls and palettes by Franchi, an upcoming Lisbon designer who was also on the guest list at the party. Both were swinging gently to Tony’s beats, which echoed off the thick castle walls. The guys were debating seating arrangements, which was unnecessary given that name cards had already been placed. But, hey, why not argue? Dinni approaches the two young ladies. “Wow, what electric dreams,” while they were offered champagne and seated at the table. The Silvester dinner was sensational, with a selection of seafood, tapas, crispy sardines, cataplana morisco, another seafood dish with onion, garlic, and tomatoes stewed in delicious white wine with clams, prawns, and coins of chorizo.
They went outside shortly before midnight, towards the towers. Fireworks began as the old year’s final ten seconds approached. Melia and Dinni appeared to start their fireworks as the new year began with kisses. Paige, on the other hand, was secretly hoping to receive a message from Terry while watching the impressive fireworks with the rest of the crowd and Tony’s new year’s beats blasting bits of Prince’s 1999 party mixed with some latest house tunes.
The Weekend set sail, leaving the harbour. She looked back at the impressive Lisbon skyline and at the past year since she arrived in Lisbon. She was taken aback by how much her professional and personal life had changed. From fixed relationships and depressive everyday job routines with conservative global companies, she was now making her first income from freelance jobs managing online ad accounts, as well as her major win from such gambling trips. She had enjoyed her fling with Dinni but recognized that she did not share Melia’s connection with him. There was excitement, perhaps because of their very different backgrounds, and they were now best friends. But seeing Melia and Dinni together demonstrated to her that the two met on a completely different level, in places inaccessible to Paige, and she felt happy for the two. She also deliberated on whether to stay with this multinational advertising firm or leave.
Speaking from the bottom of her heart, she hated this corporation, these team structures, and the people’s need for recognition, as well as the manipulation games and the fact that they would only act when things would help their personal interests. Young guys were given responsibilities, and control over other people. A disproportionately large number of decision makers were in their roles because of sympathy, personal likes and preferences, or any other factor instead of their qualifications and skills. While on the team level, highly qualified people were performing such micromanaged tasks, which were again managed in such chaotic ways that no matter what anyone did, there was no chance of doing things correctly. On the other hand, it was fascinating to witness, which not only kept one in touch with current events—reality—but also increased the comprehension of why the world changed in the way it did.
Things like high service standards and quality standards have seen a significant decline over the past few decades. Paige’s upbringing had instilled in her values such as trustworthiness, reliability, being supportive and the expectation that others would want the best for her. At this point, most people focused on their own increases in wealth and profits, and if they couldn’t achieve that, they loved the game of power and hierarchy, which were most often achieved through bullying. And there was a lot of bullying going on. Not only in that particular company, but also in businesses in general and on personal levels. Paige was missing a balance between the importance of profitability, on the one hand, but also other factors, such as a balanced social component and innovation for the better. However, in today’s world, most people are looking for quick wins without much concern for the potential drawbacks or whether or not this will be at the expense of their environment.
But here she was, profiting most from the quick win and the pleasure of a fast life. But still, she held the card and would not bring people into danger. However, some of the people on the guest list might have been questionable, but still, they all had businesses in mind that would somehow serve society in all their demands. Paige thought about investing her money; she loved the city and the beach. She had the idea of either an apartment house or a house in one of the trendy quarters. There was a vibrant tourist scene in Lisbon, so places would be good for short- or long term rentals. But she also loved the sea and was dreaming about a sea resort. Well, if she were lucky tonight, there might be the chance for both, so she decided to see how the night would turn out. Maybe she had no need to decide between the one or the other, but with a bit of luck, she could have both.
Paige finished her drink and walked down the stairs to the cabin, where the guests were already engaged in gambling, with her mind set on investing in some housing and possibly quitting her corporate job as an independent single woman. Dan smiled as he offered another drink.
“Cleared your head?”
Yeah, I got a fresh breeze.”
They approached the table with poker faces on. The corporate head, Jo, Melia’s Ex, or On and Off Affair, was a familiar face. So Paige considered how he would react if Melia and Danni became the new dream couple and showed this demonstratively. Melia adored this kind of power, and it was clear that Jo wasn’t completely unaffected by this new couple’s constellation, despite his best efforts.
Apart from the exclusive guest list, which included a guy from Canada and another from Italy, Paige noticed a familiar voice. A guy standing with a group at the far end of the room, the body shape looked familiar, too, but she wasn’t sure, could it be the guy she was looking for?
It was, in fact. The group was just about to open a new bottle of champagne and fill the champagne flutes.
“Good evening, Paige.” Paige was looking into that sunnyboy smile she remembered from the summer boat trip when the guy turned around.
“Oh, hello, Terry.” Paige raised her head, blinking. “Such a pleasant surprise!” She took the champagne flute and kissed Terry on the cheek. They had just exchanged New Year’s wishes via text messages an hour before, and her questions about what he was planning for New Year’s turned out to be in the UK. Of course, she was pleased with the surprise, and the two proceeded to the roulette table. “And do you have any other New Year’s plans over here in the lovely country of Portugal?” Paige was already aware that Terry and Susan split up and that Terry was ready for a change, with plans to relocate to Lisbon. One of his major clients was present, and an interesting project was on the table. Terry was still unsure whether he should leave his well-established job with the BBC, the largest media company in the UK; he was still discussing how to work this parallel; he also did not want to lose all of his connections, so he was discussing how to get the best of both worlds, the large scale corporation and working on individual projects from Portugal.
Paige welcomed the plan. She talked about her plans to buy some property. Terry and Dan expressed their curiosity about Paige’s idea and stated their interest in joining such a project so they could build on Paige’s idea on a larger scale: purchasing an old townhouse, renovating the apartments, and renting them out. Dan, who had many contacts, had already identified a property that was currently on the market. Paige’s dream location was a traditional Lisbon town house near the Jardin do Princip Real; she loved that area because it was central, traditional, the Botanical Garden was nearby, and it was walking distance to the lively Chiado area with all the shops, bars, and cafes that she loved very much.
Paige had a plan for the roulette table. She’d go for 32, which meant three units on rouge, red, and two chips on the second column, as well as double street betting on numbers 31 to 36.
Melia, who had joined the three, was laying out her snake line by placing her chip in the outer corner of number 34, which covered the numbers 5, 9, 12, 14, 16, 19, 23, 27, 30, 32, and 34. With a winning payout of 2:1.
Dan preferred playing a top line with higher payouts of 8:1 and a street with a winning payout of 11:1.
Terry observed for a while before playing by chance.
As the night progressed, a happy crowd danced on deck in the early morning hours; some had sunk into the pillows on the side sofas, and the game tables became less crowded. Melia had joined the table with the guests by special invitation, where her ex-lover Jo held a hand and stood there for a brief moment before leaving with her new lover Danny to join the dancing crowd onboard. For both, the roulette table had spun well and turned out to be profitable. One more reason for Melia to flaunt her success to Jo, who was unsure whether he would leave the boat with a win or another loss in the morning.
Paige and Terry had found solace in the pillows in the boat’s darkest corner, with drinks and lo-fi beats sunk into the cushions, kisses, and the early morning hours.
The boat arrived at 8:00 a.m. at the port east of Lisbon, and the passengers disembarked to spend New Year’s Day in Cascais at a small hotel near the beach. Starting with a new year’s walk along the beach before turning the keys in the lock to their hotel suite to finally relax and sleep.
Paige had a satisfying start to the new year because she had enough luck at the table to fund her projects in addition to waking up and finally finding her restless heart and soul in a comfort zone in her lover’s arms on a late New Year’s afternoon.
Another day, the two rode their motorcycles along the Atlantic Coast Road. It was a clear, bright, blue sky, sunny, with a light breeze breaking free.
After twenty minutes, they came to a halt in a small bay. They walked along the side boardwalk, admiring the cliffs. A little further down was an abandoned motel. Paige saw this idyllic little sandy beach and couldn’t believe her eyes when she passed by.
Guincho Beach is featured in the opening scene of the legendary James Bond film On Her Majesty’s Service—a fight scene in which James saves the life of a woman who is about to commit suicide by walking into the water.
Terry told the entire plot of the film, and the two laughed.
The beach was also popular with surfers, and there was a small café at the top of the hill. The scenery and the natural beauty of this small area of land on the planet mesmerized Paige. She immediately fantasized about buying the land where the little motel stood and rebuilding it. Terry laughed and suggested asking Danny or one of his friends to get some info about the ground. With their connections, they would have known who owned that land strip and if it was for sale. He reasoned that if it was for sale, someone would have already made it more appealing. There was probably a reason why it was in such poor condition.
Walking down the little steps, they took off their shoes, tapping through the sandy beach with the feeling of the January cold underneath their souls. Paige went further, stepping into the cool water, splashing with her feet, excited for the new. Hand in hand, they walked along the shore until they hit up the little coffee shop for brunchtime.
Natalie Hush 