Geoff Dyer - The Search

The search began when Walker met Rachel.

He had been hung-over most of the day and intended taking it easy that night. Then, just as he was beginning to feel better, his brother dropped by, kitted out in an off-white tuxedo, telling Walker to get changed and get a move on, he was coming to Charles and Margot Browning’s party.

‘I haven’t got a tux.’

‘There’s one in the car. Come on, we’re late. Let’s go.’

They were annual events, these parties, renowned throughout the bay area for the extravagant array of drink and food, the wealth of those invited to consume it. Walker had never been before and apart from his brother — who, it emerged in the car, had come by the invite indirectly — he knew no one. He stood drinking, squeezed into a wine-stained tuxedo, wondering why he had come. Photographers were prowling around, snapping anyone who possessed the distinctive complexion of wealth. No one had any interest in photographing Walker but several times he was caught in the blurred background of a smiling society couple.

He had been there an hour, getting loaded, watching people talk, when a woman nudged into him and spilt half his drink. His age, a little older maybe. Brown hair piled up, earrings, no lipstick. A dress that reached to the floor.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Walker dabbed at his jacket, gripping him like a velvet wrestler.

‘That’s OK.’

She was laughing. ‘It looks a little on the tight side.’

‘That’s how they’re being worn this year.’

‘A dinner jacket and surgical truss in one. Very stylish.’

‘I like to think so.’

She said her name, reached out a bare arm. Her bracelets chimed together as he shook her hand.

‘It’s a terrible party, isn’t it?’

In the first moments of meeting someone we’re attracted to we grope towards an agreement on something, however small — even if it is only agreeing to have a drink — and this declaration of Rachel’s was enough to establish a treaty between them. They bitched about the party, the people there. Watched one of the photographers coax a grin and kiss from a rival pair of celebrities.

‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘Nothing means anything any more unless you’re photographed doing it. We need photos to prove to everyone else we exist, to remind ourselves. How’s that for an unoriginal thought? What were we talking about? I forget.’

‘Photos,’ said Walker. ‘Pictures.’

‘Yes. You know when you’re on holiday and you take pictures? You always wait until you’re back home before getting them developed, even if you have time. Otherwise they’re just postcards. But if you wait till you’re back home they’re different. Then it’s like that story of dreaming of a garden where you pick a flower — and you wake up with petals in your bed.’

She was high or drunk, Walker guessed. ‘I never take a camera,’ he said dully.

‘So the dream goes on, even after you’ve woken up. Either that or you don’t wake up at all.’ She took a sip of red wine, holding the glass in both hands — a gesture Walker had always been a sucker for.

‘Something like that,’ he said. Seeing his glass was empty, Rachel motioned to him to take hers. As she did so a photographer crouched down and snapped them. Walker took a gulp of Rachel’s wine. A guy in a red-faced blazer came over and kissed her, chatted and drifted away, leaving them alone again. Moments later a woman came up and kissed Rachel on the cheek, introduced her to a man with a millionaire haircut who in turn presented another man to her. Suddenly there was a lot of kissing going on. Eventually Walker got included in the swelling round of introductions. Shook hands, repeated his name for those who didn’t quite catch it. He finished Rachel’s wine, mumbled ‘Excuse me’ to no one in particular and headed for the bar.

Rachel was surrounded by a laughing group of people when he got back. He handed her a full glass and she smiled thanks. The way she laughed, looked at him. Walker wondered if he would go to bed with her, not now, not tonight, sometime. The possibility hovered beyond the edge of what they said which was nothing, just words and smiles swapped. He shuffled on the periphery of the group and moved off, bumping into someone as he did so.

‘Sorry!’ It was the kind of party where people were constantly stepping into each other and apologizing. On this occasion, though, the guy Walker had collided with stood there and stared him down as if they were in a waterfront bar where an encounter like this could lead to a broken-bottle fight. A camera flashed whitely behind the guy’s head, silhouetting him briefly. Now he was looking over Walker’s shoulder; Walker glanced around, instinctively following his gaze, thought he glimpsed Rachel looking away, startled.

Walker moved off, shoving gently through the crowd. Lifted a bottle from a waiter’s tray and resumed his solitary drinking. He was out on the terrace, looking down at the glinting waters of the bay, when he felt a touch on his arm. He turned round and saw her.

‘I thought I’d never find you,’ she said. ‘It’s so crowded.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘I’m sorry, I got cornered. Is there anything more boring than a party?’

‘Hundreds of things — but at a party it’s more concentrated. And it happens on a bigger scale.’

She smiled quickly, ‘I have to leave. I wanted to say good-bye.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Yes. I would like to have talked to you more.’

‘Maybe I’ll call you.’

‘It’s better if I call you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you in the book?’

‘Yes. It’s under B: B for Brush-off.’

‘I’m not giving you the brush-off — it’s a weird expression, isn’t it? Honestly.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll call you.’

With that she was gone, leaving Walker in the mothy darkness, an empty bottle in his hand.

Two days later she turned up at his apartment. A fresh, clear morning. He had just got back from the gym and was sitting on the patio, reading the paper, when the doorbell rang. The mailman, he guessed.

She was wearing jeans, a sweat-shirt. Her hair, neatly pinned up at the party, was all over the place today. In her hand she held a pile of letters.

‘Your mail,’ she smiled.

Walker looked over her shoulder and waved at the retreating figure of the mailman, smiling and pleased now that the good weather was here.

Walker smiled too. Everyone was smiling. ‘Come in.’

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘It’s a perfect time.’

Walker fixed a jug of orange and she followed him out to the patio. They sat in creaking wicker chairs, filling pauses with the swirl and chink of ice. He tore open one of the letters she had handed him and glanced at the contents. Sunlight bounced white off the painted concrete. Walker squinted while she put on a pair of sunglasses. At every moment her face seemed on the brink of answering ‘No’ to the question ‘Is she beautiful?’ But the answer never quite came and the longer he looked the more uncertain he became. Later, he saw he had got it wrong all the time: her beauty lay precisely in this aura of uncertainty. Beside it the beauty of models and actresses seemed banal. At the time, watching her finger a strand of hair from her face, he was aware only of the way his eyes lingered on her as they waited for each other to speak.