“Dance with Me”
Oliver had always fancied Emily. She was a striking blonde with hazel eyes, the kind of woman who turned heads the moment she joined their London office.
The other women in the office eyed her warily, split into two camps. Some insisted her hair was dyed—how could a blonde have such dark eyes? Others swore her irises were just coloured contacts. Weeks passed, but her roots never betrayed her. Sometimes, Emily wore glasses at her desk. Why bother with spectacles if she had lenses?
The office charmer, Charlie, noticed Emily too, but unlike shy Oliver, he wasted no time pursuing her. A quick coffee here, a lunch invitation there, even offering her lifts home in his sleek car—each gesture twisted Oliver’s heart with jealousy.
How could Oliver compete? Charlie was handsome, effortlessly charming, the sort who could make any woman blush with a well-timed compliment. He had a trove of jokes and knew how to deliver them. The trouble was, once Charlie won a woman over, his interest waned, and he moved on. This time, his attentions left Sarah—another colleague—sniffing in the loo, plotting revenge.
Oliver, meanwhile, was a large, soft-spoken man with round spectacles and a tendency towards ill-fitting jumpers. His surname, Pemberton, didn’t help—it carried the same hapless charm as the famous literary character. But Oliver had one advantage: he understood computers. Any glitch, any crashed system, he could fix it—or nearly. For that, everyone valued him.
“Oliver, help!”
“My laptop’s frozen!”
“Ollie, can you sort this video edit?”
He’d settle at the keyboard, fingers flying, and soon all would be right again—presentations saved, edits polished.
“Oliver, you’re a lifesaver,” Louise or Vikki would say, pecking his cheek, leaving him blushing.
“Pemberton, you’re a genius! I’d have been here all night. Next round’s on me,” a bloke might promise, though the offer was usually forgotten.
Oliver didn’t drink. He preferred the girls’ gratitude.
Truthfully, his name was George, but someone had dubbed him “Oliver” years ago, and it stuck. He’d scowl and insist on Georgie, but it was useless.
“Don’t fuss, it suits you,” Charlie would say, clapping him on the shoulder. Oliver could never tell if it was kindness or mockery.
He wasn’t some wealthy heir like his literary namesake. His mum, Dorothy, had raised him alone. When he was old enough to ask about his father, she didn’t lie. She’d wanted a child before her youth slipped away—a small, plain woman who’d seized her chance when a younger man escorted her home one evening. He never knew about the boy she named George, after her own father.
Oliver grew up quiet and clever, never troubling anyone. While other lads wasted hours gaming, he studied computers, soon realising he could earn from them—if only he had better gear. Dorothy took out a loan to buy him a powerful processor and a wide monitor. What wouldn’t a mother do for her only son?
After school, he studied Information Technology at university, landing a decent salary. Dorothy retired, devoting herself to his care—cooking hearty meals, baking pies. Oliver ate, and his waistline grew. He never took to sports, spending his days hunched over screens until he’d become something of a recluse.
Like any mother, Dorothy longed for a dutiful daughter-in-law, for grandchildren. She introduced him to friends’ daughters, but Oliver showed no interest—until Emily. She consumed him. He saved her photos from social media, staring for hours. She never noticed.
One morning, Oliver arrived early and sabotaged Emily’s computer. Without it, her work stalled just as their manager demanded reports.
“Help!” Emily rushed to him.
He tinkered with grave importance, removing the very program he’d installed. Emily chewed her lip. Finally, he deleted it and stood.
“Did you fix it?” she asked, crestfallen.
“Try now,” he said with false modesty.
“It works! Thank you! Ask for anything,” she gushed.
“Anything?” He gave her an odd look.
Emily backtracked. “Within reason. Dinner? The cinema?”
“I’ve seen every film, even those not out yet. The Christmas party’s coming. Dance with me?”
“With you? Can you even dance?” She hesitated. “Fine, I promise.”
A week later, after drinks and buffet plates were cleared, the dancing began. Oliver approached, but before he could speak, Charlie swept Emily into the fray. Oliver watched, gutted, as she forgot her promise. He slipped out early.
The next day, Emily found him at his desk. “You left! I’d have danced with you.”
Oliver adjusted his glasses. “I get it. I’m not handsome, not like Charlie. I thought you were different.”
“You’re kind, clever,” she said hurriedly, “but maybe lose a bit of weight? Try contacts? Women notice looks too—would you have fancied me if I were plain?”
He said nothing.
That evening, he studied his reflection. Emily was right. He refused Dorothy’s pies the next morning.
“Not hungry?” she fretted.
“They’re perfect. I’ll take them to work.”
At the office, he shared them out.
“No wonder you’re portly,” Charlie said, wolfing down his third.
Oliver sighed but held firm. Diet alone wasn’t enough—he needed exercise, though he loathed the idea. Scouring fitness sites, he found only running or gym routines until an advert caught his eye: *Dance classes for adults and children*. Dancing was exercise, but enjoyable.
He dialled the number. A warm, young woman’s voice answered. Stammering, Oliver confessed his size, his clumsiness, his hope.
“Come tomorrow at seven,” she said, no mockery in her tone.
Heartened, he asked, “Who teaches? A man or…?”
“Me,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ve competed internationally, but an injury ended that. Now I teach. Though children learn faster than adults.”
Her voice held a tinge of sadness. Oliver pitied her—few pupils, little money. The next evening, he went.
The woman who greeted him—Laura—wasn’t the waif he’d imagined. She was older, curvy, kind.
“I rang yesterday. If I’m too fat—”
“Nonsense! Dancing’s about heart, not size.”
“You sounded so young on the phone,” he blurted.
Laura laughed, bright and unoffended. “Shall we?”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“You’re first. Less pressure. Watch.” She demonstrated simple steps.
Oliver copied her. She praised him, turned on music, and danced beside him. He trod on her toes, but she pretended not to notice.
“See? You’re a natural.”
“Thanks, Laura. Never thought I’d manage.” Already, he pictured dancing with Emily.
“Come back tomorrow.”
Oliver arrived early, glimpsing Laura teaching children—more girls than boys, but they were there. Then they danced again.
“Smaller steps. Shift your weight—yes, like that.”
Each session built his confidence. Laura became a friend, a mentor. Three weeks in, his trousers sagged.
“Trimmed down, eh?” Charlie smirked. “Got a girl?”
Soon, Oliver bought new clothes, swapped glasses for contacts, even let Laura pick smarter shoes.
“Like Charlie’s,” he said, studying his reflection. “Think a girl might fancy me now?”
Laura hesitated. “You’re learning for a girl?”
He nodded.
“She’ll adore you,” Laura said, though her smile dimmed.
Before the office’s spring gala, Emily sought him out.
“You’ve changed. I remember my promise.”
Oliver’s heart soared.
He asked Laura’s advice on attire.
“Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Unbutton the collar. No one dances better than you.”
“But Charlie—”
“Charlie flails. You dance. She’ll see it.” Her eyes clouded.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ll win Emily and leave. This was just for her.”
He had no answer.
At the party, Oliver waited through raucous songs until a slow melody began. He approached Emily, scarlet-faced, and led her to the floor.
A few steps in, her eyes widened. Remembering Laura’s coaching, he guided her smoothly, spinning her once before dipping her low as the song ended.
The room erupted in applause. Emily gazed up at him, intrigued.
“Never knew you had it in you,” Charlie said, clapping his shoulder. “Teach me?”
But Oliver was already leaving.
“Off so soon?” Emily called.
“I’ve somewhere to be.”
Outside, frost had stilled the evening’s drizzle. He took the bus not home, but to Laura’s studio. Light still glowed inside.
She sprang up when he entered. “Well?”
“I stunned them,” he grinned.
As the months passed, Oliver and Laura turned the small dance studio into a thriving haven where misfits and dreamers alike found their rhythm, proving that sometimes the perfect partner isn’t the one you chase but the one who teaches you how to move.
