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 18 Inspector Dankworth looked up from behind his tabloid newspaper,
His fat nose twitching like a rabbit on the hunt for his next juicy carrot.
Sanwa Sunscape.
No one beyond suspicion,
The headline read.
For once the East Riding Express was factually correct.
That Lady P is incorrigible,
He mumbled under his breath.
I've never seen it so busy.
He stared at the scene unfolding in front of him.
In the last hour,
The Bridlington hotel lobby had become a world of its own.
A whirlwind of movement and sound.
And all because of her latest push.
Half-price specials for art lovers,
The huge poster read.
All the irony.
Now gossips,
Podcasters and nosy parkers wheeled suitcases across polished marble floors.
And staff sailed past in the crispest of crisp uniforms,
Whilst the revolving doors span endlessly.
The Bridlington hotel had become a melting pot of secrets,
Stories and seclusion for all those desperate to remain relevant.
The coast of East Riding was an influential place,
And being in on the action held real value.
Inspector Dankworth sighed.
How he hated these amateurs getting in the way of his professional investigation.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
Everyone was an expert these days.
He glanced over to the front desk,
Where the switchboard rang on.
Emily Perklington Smythe was front and centre,
With a concierge deep in conversation with some older-looking woman with a jolly face.
They were looking very pleased with themselves.
Over by the Orangery,
The Bridlington's oldest resident,
Mrs Delaware,
Was comfortably ensconced in her favourite chair.
He had yet to suss her out.
Whether she was completely past it as she made out,
Or the best actress the Bridlington possessed,
Was anyone's guess.
Behind him,
In the various huddles of wing-backed chairs,
Conversations overlapped in unknown languages.
Some hurried,
Some relaxed.
And all the while,
The soothingly soft jazz hummed on in the background.
This lobby was relaxing.
There was no getting away from it.
But the inspector had no time to rest on his laurels.
He needed answers.
Not only was there the exploitation scandal,
But the theft now of a priceless painting to boot.
Things were getting urgent.
He needed to prove himself.
Now,
Where to begin?
Maybe the two events were connected somehow.
That young lad,
Lewis,
Was hardly brain of Britain.
There was no way he could be the mastermind.
And he'd been surprisingly tight-lipped behind bars,
Especially as he'd been offered early release if he coughed up anything that could help the investigation.
So he was out.
As for his grandmother,
There was still mileage there.
But why bite the hand that feeds you?
She was on favourable rates at the best hotel around.
By the looks of it,
She was Queen Bee here.
What motive would she have?
And she was mates with Lady P herself,
By all accounts.
No,
He couldn't see it.
Inspector Dankworth squirmed in his seat.
He was sick of being in this dark tunnel.
He needed a little light.
But where?
As the oldest member of East Riding Constabulary,
He hadn't been rank on his wits.
He was in the position he was in by default.
He'd inherited his desk,
His computer and his title.
But he had yet to earn them.
Then all of a sudden,
He spotted something that gave him hope.
Skinner,
Isn't it?
Joseph Skinner?
Joe brushed his hair away from his eyes and looked up.
Oh,
Christ,
Here we go again.
I've got my hands full at the moment,
But if you go to the front desk,
Emily will be glad to help you out.
It's you I want to speak to,
Son,
So don't come the innocent with me.
Joe?
And there was Emily running across the lobby as though her life depended upon it.
The last thing they needed was Inspector Dankworth on the case.
He hated Joe and Joe hated him.
Have you heard anything about the Sanwa,
Inspector?
In as authoritative a tone as she could muster.
We're having real trouble with the insurance company and we'd really welcome some good news.
Not a clue,
Miss,
Not a clue.
The trail's gone cold,
As it were.
No identification,
No forensics,
Nothing.
But never fear,
Something will come to light.
It always does.
Right.
Emily secretly had her suspicions ever since Cunningham had gone AWOL.
But as much as she hated the hotel manager,
She was finding it hard to match him with someone who would willingly see one of his staff stabbed.
If only she had more evidence.
Do you have an alibi for the night of the robbery,
Skinner?
Emily didn't like the way Inspector Dankworth was looking at Joe.
I don't think this is the time or the place,
Inspector,
She insisted.
Joe's working.
He's not available for the third degree right now.
Can't you make time after his shift ends?
No,
Miss,
I can't.
I'll ask again.
Do you have an alibi for the night of the robbery,
Skinner?
Joe shuffled from foot to foot.
The last thing he wanted to do was admit he'd been working for the Petrovskys.
But that was exactly where he had been on the night in question,
On one of their missions.
Yes,
Where were you,
Son?
Emily could see Joe was distressed.
Everyone knew how the police judged those from Sandmore Hill.
Nothing but trouble,
That's what they said.
The bane of the constabulary's lives.
And Joe had told her more than once of the fit-ups he'd witnessed as a lad,
Including his own.
He was working in Sandmore Hill.
Inspector.
She blurted the words out before she even had time to register what she was saying.
Here,
In the lobby,
All night.
Joe looked down at his shoes.
It was a downright lie and they both knew it.
But what could he do?
And anyway,
Emily was the daughter of Lady Perklington Smythe,
The heiress to the Bridlington Empire,
Who would question her word.
It wasn't as if there were CCTV to prove otherwise,
Was it?
And you can confirm that,
Can you,
Skinner?
Yeah,
I was working,
Like Emily said.
Slowly,
Cautiously,
The inspector turned to leave.
Then,
Hesitating,
He turned back again.
And that's Petra Petrovsky,
Or Bianca,
As some know her.
She's still working here,
Is she?
Joe refused to make eye contact,
But Emily held fast.
She's below stairs,
She said quickly.
On a break,
I believe.
Right then,
The inspector replied.
Onwards and upwards.
He walked away in his highly polished size twelves.
And Emily whispered.
Don't worry,
Joe.
I'll find out exactly what went on that night,
If it's the last thing I do.
I've got a feeling there's a lot more to this than meets the eye.
James Brighton looked down into the phone as he spoke,
As if it could bring him closer to the person at the end of the line.
How are you feeling?
You sound a bit better.
The nurse is treating you well?
I'm their golden boy.
I bet you are.
James smiled.
Speaking to Chef was his one light in a somewhat cloudy day.
Things had become almost impossible at the Bridlington,
What with being demoted and at Delaware's beck and call.
He was feeling more and more depressed.
You're depleted now.
Do you want me to come and get you later?
No,
Benny's here.
It's okay.
Right,
You are.
James pictured the person Chef was speaking of.
He could see the appeal in a Doris Day kind of a way.
The woman was perfect.
Perfect eyes,
Perfect skin,
And a perfect personality.
Everything a woman should be.
If only he were that way inclined,
Life would be so much easier.
But he wasn't and he needed to shut up before everything went black and he woke up drunk in the casino.
Chef,
Meanwhile,
Didn't seem to have that problem.
She was his ex,
He said,
His past.
But she was also his present by the looks of it.
Best mates,
Buddies,
Pals.
Was he in denial?
James hoped so.
He closed his phone.
How could he keep doing this?
It was pathological,
Self-destructive.
But try as he might,
He just could not stop.
When he woke,
It was Chef.
When he worked,
It was Chef.
When he dreamt,
It was Chef.
He yearned for him,
Craved him like a starving man craved the smallest morsel.
He didn't want much.
To hold his hand was enough.
But he feared that would not happen again.
Not now that Benny was breathing down their necks every minute of the day.
James couldn't help but resent her.
She had had it all.
Chef's skin on hers,
His strong arms about her,
His passion,
His lust,
His complete attention.
It just wasn't fair.
Now,
According to Jean,
She'd be next door in the casino every day.
Work experience that J.
Tin had arranged.
This was just too much.
East Riding was such a small place.
Everyone knew everyone.
He hated it.
How life would be easier just to be back on the cruise ships.
He was never going to get rid of Benny now.
She'd be watching everything he did and telling Chef as likely as not,
Painting him in even worse a light.
Why did it have to be like this?
Why did he have to be like this?
He was James Brighton,
Wasn't he?
The Bridlington poster boy.
The man everyone swooned over.
Why did he need anyone?
For God's sake,
Jean,
Get a grip of yourself.
He slumped into the corner of the staircase,
Digging into his pocket for some more gum.
He'd quit the cigarettes almost as soon as he started.
He only needed them to get him through the hospital saga.
But now he had to add nicotine to the mix,
Just to get through the day.
Sod this.
Then just as quickly,
He whispered to himself.
At least Chef will be happy.
He'll be back soon and we can start our breakfast thing again.
Stop,
Jim.
It's going nowhere.
He's going nowhere with you.
You're on your own.
He's out of your league.
You're never going to be enough with him in the mix.
Just let it go.
Let him go.
And pulling himself together,
James got up and made for the fire doors.
He pushed through with his shoulders rolled back and his smile on point.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair and made a beeline for the new delivery driver.
Hadn't the man been asking after him for the past week?
Needs must and all that.
