The Trouble with Henry and Zoe by Andy Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

planning to DJ his way from Asia to Australia to
America and anywhere else the wind blew him. But finding gigs that paid anything other than alcohol was easier imagined than realized. Alex was running dangerously low on money and optimism, when
various circumstances aligned and the DJ gods span him in the direction of a regular set paying paper wages. The location was less idyllic than Koh Lanta or Rai Leh, but it was a good opportunity
to bank some much-needed cash. Four weeks into Alex’s Phuket residency, however, the club owner accused him of stealing, threatened him with a machete, and said if Alex was still in Phuket by
the weekend something ‘crinical’ would happen to him.
    ‘Crinical?’
    ‘I didn’t know if he meant criminal, critical or what,’ Alex continued. ‘I mean, considering the mad bastard was waving a machete around I guess it all amounted to the
same thing, but – have you been to Thailand? – I’d had a bunch of diet pills, speed basically, and a magic-mushroom milkshake, and, well, I was having trouble processing it,
danger and all, so I’m saying to him: “
Crinical
? What’s crinical?” And he’s practically foaming at the mouth, shouting: “Crinical. I send you to the
doctor’s crinic. You understand me now?”’
    Something – besides the vaguely Alex Garland plot – didn’t ring true about Alex’s story; he was fidgeting with his watch and seemed reluctant to hold eye contact. On the
other hand, the detail (‘crinical’) felt too specific not to be authentic. But if Zoe doubted him, Alex didn’t seem to notice. He went on to tell Zoe how the club owner not only
refused to pay his four weeks’ outstanding wages, but also ‘confiscated’ his record collection and headphones. So with neither money nor music, Alex had little option but to
return to the UK. A friend put him up on their sofa, and through various contacts Alex was able to land a couple of ‘eighty-quid gigs’ in large pubs and small clubs.
    ‘What about your records?’ Zoe asked, trying not to sound like she was interrogating a flimsy story.
    ‘Borrowed some off a friend.’
    The answer felt deliberately terse, something in its delivery seeming to say:
Can we leave it at that?
    Zoe nodded.
    Alex laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s a mad story, I know. I tend not to bring it up because it sounds like so much bullshit. Like
The Beach
with DJs.’
    Zoe laughed now. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’
    Alex took a sip of his drink and continued. ‘And so I played a few gigs in London, but by the time September rolled around I had two hundred quid in the bank, a ten grand loan, and so . .
.’ he pulled at the lapels of his very nice suit, ‘. . . oil and gas.’
    ‘At least you got a good story out of it.’
    Alex nodded as if this was fair enough. Then he sighed. ‘There’s something I should tell you.’
    Zoe closed her eyes, took a breath. ‘If you tell me you’re married or you’ve got a girlfriend, I swear to God’ – she raised her glass of wine –
‘you’re going to need a dry cleaners.’
    Alex smiled at that, briefly. He reached across the table, took hold of Zoe’s wrist and lowered her glass-holding hand to the table.
    ‘I don’t believe it.’
    ‘It’s not . . . it’s not exactly . . .’
    ‘Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.’
    ‘L—’
    ‘Let you explain. Is that what you were about to say? Wh . . . do they give you a handbook?’
    ‘Zoe—’
    ‘You can’t sit here with your hand on my wrist all night, Alex. For one thing, what if your girlfriend walked in?’
    ‘She’s not. She’s . . . I’m going to end it.’
    Zoe glanced pointedly down at the table, the glass still in her hand, Alex’s hand (nice watch, clean fingernails) still firmly gripping her wrist.
    ‘Do you promise not to throw it on me?’
    ‘I haven’t decided. If you’d bought a better red, I’d be more inclined to drink it. But this tastes like someone’s gran made it in a mop