February Sucks in Britain

First, I want to acknowledge and thank George Anderson for writing the original story 'February Sucks'. I have tried to contact him, but without success. With so many versions of his story out there, I hope he does not mind another.

That said, this is more an 'inspired by' rather than an alternate version. I changed the main characters and the story is set in England. But the premise is the same -- a happily married couple out with friends encounter a sexy celebrity man who moves in on the woman. It's a great situation dramatically and as a writer I was curious to see what my characters would do with it.

To those of you about to read this story, I hope you enjoy it. And to those who feel that there are already more than enough versions of 'February Sucks', I have a very simple suggestion.

Don't read it.

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February Sucks in Britain

February was shite.

Temperatures fell to below zero, the south of England saw snow for the first time in three years, and roads were blocked because whatever snow ploughs existed hadn't been maintained. The bad weather just seemed to go on and on. Watching the news, you'd think that the whole country was cold, shivering and miserable.

But not Bryan and Becky Sandford.

When they walked into the Madison Club on the very last night of that abysmal month, they felt on top of the world. Bryan was sporting a Ralph Lauren tuxedo and Becky wore a blue Gabbana dress with long sleeves and a flared skirt that rippled as she walked. Heads turned as the couple were led by the maître-d to the oval table-for-six where their four companions were waiting.

'Becky, you look fantastic!' shrieked Dee, as she leapt to her feet for a hug.

Her husband, Dave, got up to shake Bryan's hand, and Phil and Jane also came around the table to greet the newcomers. There was a lot of compliments and praise and mutual admiration, the women all 'gorgeous' and the men all 'handsome'.

The fact was all three couples were thirtysomethings with children at the same school and jobs and homes in the suburbs. They were not poor by any means, but the club in the city, the hotel they were staying at overnight, even Bryan's rented tux -- these were special treats for all of them. Their kids were with grandparents or friends and, for one night, they were determined to live it up like millionaires.

The Madison Club was a restaurant and dance venue, inspired by the style of the American Jazz Age. Owned by actual Americans, they held special gala evenings with live music played by a twelve-piece swing orchestra. Tickets were expensive and Dee had only managed to get a place because of a cancellation. All the tables in the club had little covered lamps and they were arranged around a roomy square dancefloor. The waiting staff had long starched aprons and slicked back hair, and they glided around the tables with trays of glittering drinks held high above their heads.

'Isn't this great?' said Dee, waving her champagne glass to encompass the room.

'It's pretty spectacular,' admitted Bryan.

The orchestra began to play Mack the Knife, a favourite of the Sandfords. Bryan and Becky looked at each other at the same moment.

'Wanna dance?' said Bryan.

'You betcha!' said Becky.

Bryan rose up and swept his wife onto to the dancefloor. Dave was just pouring two glasses of champagne, but stopped when they disappeared.

'Oh, nice one!' he said. 'They've only just got here and now they bugger off!'

'Well, haven't you heard?' said Dee. 'Becky and Bryan are in lurve!'

Jane snickered as she drank her bubbly. Phil looked troubled.

'But we're all in love, aren't we?' he said.

'Of course we are, dear,' said Jane, patting his hand.

Dave jammed the champagne bottle back into the ice bucket and looked at the couple on the dancefloor. Especially Becky, who really did look stunning in that blue dress. And the way she was grinning and looking at Bryan ... Dave could feel his throat tighten.

'Dee, have either of them thanked you for organising this evening?' he said.

'Becky sent me a text when I emailed the booking.'

'Just a text?'

'Well, I daresay they imagine that their presence is thanks enough.'

Dave grunted and gave a nod. Dee joined him in watching the couple on the dancefloor, her own gaze on Bryan. Phil leaned sideways towards his wife and whispered, 'Did we say thank you?' Jane rolled her eyes and drank.

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Becky had only meant to have the one dance. But Bryan looked so gorgeous in that suit and the music was awesome, and she ended up dancing three numbers before she was even aware of it. As the third number came to a close and people clapped, Becky glanced over to the table where the others were sat watching.

'Come on,' she said. 'We should go back.'

The band began a slow intro and both Becky and Bryan looked at each other in a kind of joyful despair. Moon River ... another favourite. The couples staying on the dancefloor drew close in each other's arms. Bryan shrugged and Becky shook her head.

'One more,' she said.

'No promises,' said Bryan.

He took his wife in the dance embrace, waited for the music to build to the right moment and then launched her across the floor. Becky was in heaven. The soaring music, the feel of the man's arms, his chest, his clear, unambiguous style. He was so solid, so sure, and yet he had a sense of rhythm too. She loved that about him. You always knew where you were with Bryan, and yet he wasn't predictable.

'You're great,' she said in his ear.

'And you're beautiful.'

'Thank you.'

She smiled as he twirled her.

'What made you rent the Ralph Lauren?' she said. 'I'm not complaining, mind, but you already have a dinner suit.'

'That old thing?'

'It's not old. It's completely fine.'

'Yeah, well, after seeing your dress, I thought "fine" wouldn't cut it.'

Becky pulled away, staring at him.

'I told you not to look!' she said.

'I know.'

'It was a surprise!'

'I know.'

'In fact, you promised not to look!'

'Yes, but I didn't promise not to check the receipt and look it up online.'

'Why, you ... you...'

'I know. You should divorce me immediately.'

Becky looked at Bryan's grin, the sparkle in his gaze. She was trying to be mad at him, trying and trying ... but it was impossible. She just loved him too much.

'You're lucky you're the best-looking guy in the room,' she said.

'No, I'm not,' he said. 'I'm just the most well-hung.'

Becky laughed, throwing her head back. He might not be wrong either, although she couldn't exactly go around checking. But as she allowed Bryan to draw her back to his chest and followed his lead, Becky felt like the luckiest woman in the world. A few months earlier, she'd gone on a girls' night out with Dee, Jane and some others. After getting wasted on Margaritas, Dee had posed a question to the group of drunken women: 'Whose husband would you most like to shag if you weren't married to your own?'

And every single woman had said, 'Bryan.'

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Marcus DeVere walked into the club wearing a Tom Ford dinner suit that cost more than the maître-d's annual salary. He and his entourage of four were shown to the special VIP table to the side with a grandstand view of the orchestra. Three bottles of Veuve Clicquot were already in ice buckets on the table and as he went to sit down, the band broke into the James Bond theme.

DeVere was a Premier league footballer whose prodigious talent and goal-scoring ability seemed of less interest to the press than the fact that he resembled a young Sean Connery. He stood and smiled at the band leader's joke, nodding to the strangers who were already taking pictures with their phones, but he was suddenly wishing he had stayed at home. By the time he sat down with the intention of pouring a drink, he found the glass already full and his four 'friends' lifting up theirs, ready for a toast.

He knew he shouldn't be drinking. His manager would have a fit when he found out. But fuck it! What was the point of being successful if you couldn't enjoy it every now and again? Marcus gave the toast, then sat back and surveyed the room, half an ear on the conversation around him. The men and women at the club would glance in his direction, then look away quickly, laughing with their friends or jiving on the dancefloor. There were a lot of attractive women, at least from a distance, but 'attractive' wasn't good enough anymore. Even as a young unknown, Marcus's looks would get him good-looking women, but now that he was famous, it was drop-dead gorgeous or nothing. His girlfriend Melissa was drop-dead gorgeous, as were his stand-by girlfriends Alicia and Carolina. And at this particular moment in time, Marcus found them all to be complete and utter pains in his arse.

The band began to play the relaxed strains of Moon River. The people on the dancefloor slowed down and men and women got closer.

That's when Marcus saw her.

The woman wore a slinky blue dress with long sleeves and a frilled skirt. She had slender legs, a good figure and moved with, not grace, but a kind of catlike stealth. The women Marcus had bedded who moved like that had all been spectacular fucks.

The man dancing with the woman said something which made her laugh. She threw back her head, her face visible for a moment. Marcus felt his cock stiffen. He watched her, fascinated yet puzzled. Her mouth was too wide, her face too round. No fashion magazine would put her on the cover. Yet she was sexy, feminine, and the way she looked and smiled at the man...

That was it. That was what bothered Marcus. It wasn't that this woman was any more beautiful than any other he had fucked. Objectively, she was maybe above average. But it was the way all that feminine sexiness was aimed exclusively at the man. He was her hero, her idol, her Man with a capital M. Even from across the hall, Marcus could see that she wasn't interested in other men. Not once had she glanced in his direction.

Marcus turned his attention to the man. He was tall and okay-looking in a standard kind of way. The Ralph Lauren suit was a nice touch, made him stand out from the crowd. But Marcus guessed the suit was rented -- once you start wearing tailored suits, you start noticing the difference. The man probably didn't have a fraction of what DeVere possessed in his bank accounts. Yet he had all of that woman.

The champagne tasted sour in Marcus's mouth. He felt a tightness in his chest. He had worked hard, hard, hard to get where he was. He had taken risk after risk, made sacrifices that had him sometimes howling alone on his locker room floor. But he had done it. He had finally made it, hit the Big Time -- the world was supposed to be at his feet.

But there across the dancefloor was a man making a mockery of that. It was clear to Marcus that the woman in the blue dress had something special, something unique, something which made him see Melissa and the rest as beautiful-but-empty Barbie dolls in comparison. And that same woman was dancing with some wannabe Alpha when the real thing was sitting here alone.

Well, thought Marcus, it's time to do something about that.

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Becky and Bryan returned to the oval table where their four companions waited. Bryan held his wife's chair as she sat, then took his own seat. Both of them were a little out of breath.

'Sorry...' said Becky.

'For what?' said Dee.

'Abandoning you like that.'

'Nonsense! This is a dance club, right, Dave?'

'Of course!' said Dave. 'Here, Becky ... have some champers!'

Dave and Dee were all smiles as they topped up the glasses. Meanwhile, Jane had called up a picture on her phone.

'Here, you'll never guess what,' she said.

Bryan and Becky looked at the phone she was holding across the table.

'Phwoar!' said Becky. 'It's that footballer guy.'

'Marcus DeVere,' said Bryan.

'Marcus DeVine, more like!'

'I'll say!' said Jane.

'So what's he doing on your phone?' said Becky.

'He's here.'

'Here, where?'

'At this club.'

'At the VIP table!' said Dee. 'Didn't you hear the James Bond theme?'

Becky and Bryan both looked blank. Maybe they were so into each other, they didn't notice, thought Dee. She forced herself to keep smiling.

'Anyway,' she said, 'I thought you'd like to know that we have a celebrity in the building.'

'Lovely,' said Bryan. 'Well, I'm going to celebrate that by taking a piss.'

Becky snorted.

She gave Bryan a kiss before he stood up to leave, then she tried to keep a straight face with the others. It wasn't easy. Dee and Jane were already talking about the star in their midst and Becky could just imagine the kind of deadpan remarks Bryan would make. Listening to them, you wouldn't even know this Marcus guy played football. He sounded like a professional hunk whose career was dating gorgeous women and getting photographed for gossip magazines.

Becky turned to Dave to ask whether this footballer played for England, but he was staring at something. Dee and Jane had stopped chattering and were staring too. Even Phil seemed struck by something. Becky opened her mouth to ask what was up and a man's deep voice spoke from behind her.

'Excuse me,' it said. 'I hope I'm not interrupting.'

Becky turned around in her seat and found herself staring into the steely dark eyes of Marcus DeVere.

It's weird to meet a celebrity in the flesh. Part of your brain tells you this person is a stranger, but another part feels that you know them, so often have you seen them in photos, magazines and on TV. It is almost a surprise to realise there's an actual human being behind the countless media images.

And Marcus DeVere was no ordinary human being. As soon as Becky saw him, she felt her insides twist, her heart beat faster, and her throat go dry. His dark eyes and eyebrows, his perfect jawline, his fascinatingly rugged, intelligent face -- and that Tom Ford suit! He was quite simply the sexiest man Becky had ever met in person. She could picture herself wearing a summer dress while watching him mow the lawn or build a shed for hour after hour without ever getting bored, bringing him lemonade whenever he wanted it.

He smiled and a small dimple appeared on his cheek.

'I haven't been able to take my eyes off you,' he said.

'Me?' said Becky.

'Oh, my goodness,' said Marcus. 'Have you any idea how beautiful you are?'

Becky went bright red in the face. She felt breathless.

'Thank you,' she said.

'Would you care to dance?'

'I'd love to.'

Marcus held out his hand. Becky took it and rose to her feet. Then she let go and looked over her shoulder.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I just quickly want to let my husband know where I am.'

'We'll be right there on the dancefloor,' said Marcus.

'Yes, but I don't want him to come back and see me with someone else.'

Marcus's face darkened. Dee was on her feet.

'Becky, don't be silly!' she said. 'We'll let Bryan know what happened.'

'I think it should come from me,' said Becky.

'Goodness,' said Dave. 'I had no idea Bryan had you under his thumb.'

'I'm not under his thumb!'

'Sorry, but that's how it looks to me.'

Jane spoke to Dave.

'Maybe Bryan is just insecure.'

'He's not insecure!' said Becky.

'Then why would he have a problem with you dancing in a dance club?'

Marcus watched the exchange with interest, waiting for the right moment. When he spoke, his timing was of course perfect.

'I should go,' he said.

'No, no, no!' said Becky. 'Look, okay...'

She looked at the group.

'Tell Bryan I wanted to wait,' she said.

'Of course!' said Dee.

Marcus smiled and led Becky away. The four sat for a moment in silence. Then Dave picked up a bottle and started pouring his wife a glass of champagne.

'I think this calls for a toast,' he said.

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Bryan finished drying his hands under the hot air dryer, resisting the temptation to wipe them on his suit trousers. When he was satisfied they were actually dry, he made his way back to the main dance hall.

The band was playing Strangers in the Night. As he skirted past the clientele, he could see his table where three of his companions were clinking champagne glasses. But Becky was conspicuous by her absence. Bryan glanced around, saw her -- and stopped dead.

Even from a distance, he recognised the man his wife was dancing with. Marcus DeVere. He danced well too, his grace on the football field evident on the dancefloor. Becky's eyes were closed, her head was near his chest, and she looked as blissed out as Bryan had ever seen her. Looking around, Bryan realised that everyone was watching her, some of the women with undisguised envy. Becky would be loving it.

Dee appeared at his elbow.

'Bryan, don't get mad at her,' she said. 'He just appeared at our table and asked her to dance.'

'What, just after he saw me leave?'

'I'm sure that was a coincidence.'

'Yeah, right.'

Bryan stood, hands on hips, glaring at the dancers. He saw DeVere say something in Becky's ear and she smiled in response.

'Look, it's just a dance,' said Dee.

'How do you know that?'

'Oh, don't be silly.'

'Dee, if that was me dancing with Margot Robbie, would you be telling Becky, "Oh, don't be silly"?'

'That's different!'

Bryan shook his head, irritated, and looked over at the oval table. Dave lifted his glass in a toast. Bryan nodded, wanting to kill him, then looked back at the dancers. He was just in time to see Marcus turn his wife so that his leg brushed hers. Becky's cheeks were red and she had that little crease in her forehead that Bryan knew intimately. She was turned on. His fists were clenched, but he also knew that causing a scene would not go well for him.

'Bryan!' said Dee. 'A couple more songs and it's all over.'

'That's what I'm afraid of.'

'Oh, let her have this special moment, Bryan.'

'And what do I do in the meantime?'

Dee shrugged.

'You could dance with me?' she said.

Bryan wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. Instead, he took a deep, deep breath, put on his best smile and turned to her.

'You know what?' he said. 'I would love that!'

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Marcus held the woman Becky to his chest, feeling her melt in his arms. He had been right about her. She moved like a cat, responding to his lead, yet also sensual and alive in her own right. She was wasted on that dork in the rented suit.

As they danced, Marcus told her how beautiful she was, how special she was, how amazing she was. And he meant every word. That was the secret. Women can sense when a man means what he says, and when that man is famous, celebrated, desired by a million other women, then his words carry the weight of all that desire in a woman's mind.

'I want to make love to you,' he said softly in her ear.

'You shouldn't say that...' murmured the woman. 'I'm married...'

Yet her body said yes even as she said no. Marcus smiled to himself. Women said 'I'm married' like it was a defence, yet for most women 'married' meant husbands and children, rules and commitment, whereas he was offering the dream of escape, adventure, freedom and romance. Most women live and die without ever knowing what it's like to be Cinderella, yet they watch it over and over in the movies. So when a real life Prince Charming appears, is it really so surprising that women want to reach for that fairy tale experience?

'I want to spend the night with you,' he whispered.

'Stop ... please...' murmured the woman.