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.
