15 The Bridlington - Original Story By Stephanie Poppins

Hello and welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

A romantic bedtime podcast guaranteed to help you drift off into a calm and restful sleep.

Come with me as we travel into the heart of the Bridlington Hotel,

The most prestigious enterprise on the coast of East Riding.

Meet the characters as they go about their everyday lives,

Albeit amongst scandal and intrigue.

Not a day goes past at the Bridlington without something happening.

But before we begin,

Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose.

That's it.

Then let it out on a long sigh.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing and nowhere you need to go.

This is your time.

Feel your shoulders melt away from your ears.

Feel the pressure seep away from your cheeks.

And let all the muscles in your face relax.

As you sink into the support beneath you,

Let the pressures of the day seep away.

The Bridlington.

A series set in an English hotel.

Written and performed by Stephanie Poppins.

Episode 15 Thomas Smythe peered over the top of his reading glasses,

His cashmere-covered elbows resting gently upon the soft green leather top of his favourite mahogany desk.

Staring out of their golden frames behind him on the darkly painted wall were a line of his old school chums,

His brother Arthur,

And an exceptionally large fish he'd bagged more than 20 seasons ago.

Emily had always liked it at Golden Sands.

It felt homely because the emphasis was on comfort rather than coordination.

Each seat sank pleasantly upon the slightest touch,

And each wall held the memory of happier times spent.

Those well-fingered spines encased in warm wood and soft crimson felt told of far-flung trips and adventures plenty.

There was so much to enjoy here,

So many books to read,

And no reason not to relax.

So Emily took full advantage.

The past few weeks had been fight or flight,

And it was time to let go,

Safe in the embrace of her kind Uncle Tom.

Mr Johnson's looked into the situation for us,

He continued.

It seemed your father's doctors no more.

They're buried in the same cemetery,

You know.

But your father's medical records are legally still part of the private surgery that was left behind.

I see,

Said Emily,

Leafing through yet another photo album and sipping her cup of tea.

So who manages that practice now?

The responsibility falls on the current practice administrator.

That's his son,

Peter Taylor.

Oh,

Can he be contacted?

Peter's currently abroad,

But funnily enough he can,

Because he's in my Rotary Club.

Emily smiled.

Everyone who was anyone in East Riding belonged to or was married to someone in the Rotary Club.

This didn't surprise her in the least.

I emailed him and told him the situation in no uncertain terms.

Being the club president does have its advantages,

You know,

Emily.

Her uncle winked.

Did Mr Taylor reply?

She asked.

Yes,

I've managed to obtain his written permission to access the records.

But officially I'm supposed to present a counter-signature from the next of kin,

Of course.

Which is your mother,

Lady Perklington Smythe.

There's no way she'll ever agree to that.

No.

We'll have to rethink things then.

Maybe.

For the moment,

Uncle Tom was keeping his cards close to his chest.

Then when at last tea was over and a lawyer,

Mr Johnson,

Had left,

He gestured to Emily to follow him into the grounds to discuss it further.

It was a gusty day with large fluffy clouds dominating the skyline and determined bursts of warm air that gushed through the long rows of furs running down from one end of the large lawn to the orchards beyond.

Emily stroked Bella,

The largest and calmest dog of the pack.

What do you think we should do?

I can't see the wood for the trees at the moment.

I have a plan,

Uncle Tom replied with a twinkle in his eye.

At this point,

We just need an idea of what the records say,

Don't we?

Just a glimpse.

That's all it'll take for us to know how to proceed in court.

If we know we have a case,

Emily,

Johnson can call the records as evidence.

Emily looked up.

She was beginning to get that feeling back,

The one she always got when something was about to happen.

It was nice hearing her uncle say we,

Although what exactly was he getting at?

She needed to hear him spell it out.

Are you saying we look at them without anyone knowing?

That's precisely what I'm saying.

There must be no witness to this.

And of course,

I can't be implicated at all if we want to be taken seriously.

It's up to you,

Emily.

If you think you can do it,

You'll have to break in when it's dark.

Using the key,

Of course.

Then you can get a good look at the files.

Take some photographs.

Bella will come with you if you like.

Just look out.

James Brighton rolled back to the cool side of his bed.

With any luck,

That would ease the thumping in his head.

How could it have gone so wrong so fast?

He'd been so certain,

So sure.

And now this.

It was unthinkable that all that cash,

£10,

000 worth,

Had been sitting on the table in the kitchen.

The table in front of him in shiny plastic chips,

Only to be scooped away by his arch-nemesis.

In a matter of seconds,

He'd lost everything he'd worked the whole night for.

Everything he needed to pay off Mikhail Petrovsky and free his best friend Joe from a life of obligation and servitude.

Who'd have thought it?

That that woman could play poker.

The forgetfulness she exhibited day after day in the orangery was just a front to get people to run around after her.

That pathetic feel-sorry-for-me act that all the waitresses kowtow to.

Was there any end to the things that woman would do to get back at him for merely existing?

He felt sick.

Reaching for his phone,

He decided to call Emily.

There was no way he could get to the front desk on time.

No way.

His head was pounding and his eyes red-raw.

Emily?

James?

Is that you?

You sound awful.

I'm not feeling great.

What's happened?

Emily sat bolt upright and looked through the glass panels in the back office to the lobby beyond.

This was unheard of.

No matter how hungover he'd been,

No matter how tired,

James Brighton had always shown up,

Ship-shape and Bristol fashion.

He never got sick,

Ever.

Nothing much.

I'm just not up to it.

I'm sorry.

James?

Sorry,

Em.

James closed his eyes.

What had it all come to that he couldn't even save his friend?

What would happen to Joe now?

Not to mention himself.

When at last he was feeling better and did return to work,

He would no longer be welcome at the front desk.

Constance Delaware had seen to that.

How had she managed a full house?

That was what he couldn't believe.

He'd been so sure of his flush,

So confident he was ahead of her.

How he hated that woman with everything he had.

Because in a split second,

With one hand,

She'd taken the money away and another had given it straight back with an obligation so bad,

James doubted he would be free himself from her for years to come.

Take it,

She said when they left.

You obviously need it more than me.

And from this day forward,

James Brighton,

You will treat me the way you used to treat me.

You will walk my dog,

Deliver my papers,

Fetch,

Carry,

And ensure that Petra is free to continue her little errands unencumbered.

You are working for me now,

And don't you forget it.

James rubbed his eyes.

You evil witch,

He said out loud,

Before thumping his pillow over and over again.

James,

Are you still there?

Said Emily.

What's the matter?

James came to suddenly,

Realising he hadn't closed his phone.

I need you,

James.

There was a theft last night,

One of the paintings.

The police are everywhere.

Are you sure you can't come in?

James sat up,

In spite of the pain he was in.

What?

Yes,

One of the paintings is gone.

And Emily checked to see no one was around.

I'm terrified it's got something to do with the Petrovskys.

The Petrovskys?

James couldn't believe it.

Things were getting worse and worse.

But nothing could prepare him for what he was about to hear next.

Cunningham's on the warpath,

Emily continued.

He checked the CCTV,

But there's nothing on it.

It was compromised.

This was done by a gang,

He said,

Who knew what they were doing.

Compromised?

But the events hall's on the same floor as the kitchen's.

Maybe Sheffle have seen something,

Said James.

Have you asked him?

That's the thing.

Emily's voice was slower,

Her words now carefully chosen.

What do you mean,

That's the thing?

Said James.

He was shouting now,

Completely unaware of anything but the man they were talking of.

He got caught up in it,

James.

Caught up in it?

What are you saying,

Emily?

What are you saying?

James was standing now,

His headache long forgotten,

His heart,

Not so much.

He's in hospital.

They say he's stable.

But he was stabbed,

James.

He challenged the gang that planned it.

James,

Are you there?

And dropping to his knees,

James brightened and screamed louder.

Than he had ever screamed before.