I did know, yes, even though my first and only serious break-up was ten years before.
I would never forget those few months after Scott and I broke up—they were the hardest of my life. Every day I rode out a maelstrom of feelings that eventually dulled into something else, but never truly went away.
Once I’d decided that there was nothing for me in Sydney and I wasn’t going back, I exchanged one life for another. I made dozens of changes all at once and when I finally settled into my London life, I made sure that very little changed from then on. On purpose. I’d been a happy creature of habit ever since, so considering the tsunami of changes Lou was facing when she got home, I felt for her.
“I know I told you he hasn’t contacted me, but I lied.” Oh.
“That’s all right, Lou. This is hefty stuff. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I do—want to, I mean. I didn’t tell you this before, but I actually left Jackson a few weeks ago. I’ve been staying with my parents. It’s all very messy, because our parents are close with each other. They actually socialise together. We’ve been one big happy family for years, until now. Until I broke it.” The sarcasm dripped from “happy family”.
“Lou, you didn’t—”
“I mean, I know this isn’t my fault. It’s not even Jackson’s fault; it’s a disease. He’s sick, but after years of watching him descend into some sort of private hell, denying the whole time that he even needed help, I just couldn’t do it anymore.” I put my hand on her leg and she grasped it. “I tried, Cat. I’m a counsellor, for crying out loud, and I couldn’t help him.”
“I’m sure you did everything you could.” She nodded and dropped my hand to get a tissue out of her pocket. “Lou, I’m serious. No one can ask any more of you, not your parents, or his, not even Jackson. At some point, you have to focus on looking after yourself.”
She dabbed under her eyes and wiped her nose. “I know. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. It’s why I came here.” She signalled the coach with her hands. “Honestly, the whole Love Bus thing is a welcome distraction. I’m kinda getting a kick out of it.”
“I’m glad.” I could have left it there, but one thing was niggling at me. “So, Jackson has contacted you since you’ve been here?” She nodded and looked out the window. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“He’s going into treatment.” She nibbled on her lip, her face set in a grimace.
“That’s good, right?”
“It is. It’s what I’ve hoped for … for … well, for years now.”
“So …”
“So, even if he’s sober, I’m not in love with him anymore. I know that now. I can’t ever go back to him.”
“Oh.”
“I want a divorce. I mean, I know I’ve been saying that—maybe it was so I could get used to the idea, you know, hearing it out loud—but in the last few days, since I heard from him, I’ve decided. I’ll tell him when I get back. I just hope it doesn’t push him back into the hole, you know?”
“I’m so sorry, Lou.”
“Eh, what are you going to do?” She closed the heavy topic with faux ease.
I patted her leg, hoping she knew I was there for her. I didn’t want to say it out loud, because I sensed she was a millimetre away from bursting into full-on tears. Poor Lou. It really put my “love fugitive” status into perspective.
We were quiet for some time after that.
***
“Tom and I have a surprise for you, everyone.” Georgina sounded more than a little pleased with herself. “We’ve made good time this morning, which means we’re going to stop in Aix-en-Provence in a little while. We’ll only have ninety minutes there, but that should be long enough to have a look around and get some lunch. And I think you’ll love it. It’s really beautiful—the quintessential French provincial town. I’m so glad we’ve been able to squeeze it in today.”
I knew from Sarah that squeezing in so-called “unscheduled stops” was part of managing a tour, but I had to admit that Aix-en-Provence sounded nice.
But it wasn’t nice. It was stunning.
Tom stopped somewhere near the centre of town—or as close to it as he could get—and I dropped a pin on Google maps. The town was replete with narrow, several-storey terraced houses, many of them painted in bright colours, with wrought-iron Juliet balconies spanning tall shutter-framed windows, and accents in contrasting colours. In every direction, the elegance and beauty of the town were undeniable.
I grabbed Craig’s arm as he walked past the four of us. “Hey, do you want to have lunch with us?”
“Oh, yeah. That’d be great.”
“Dani’s in charge.”
“I am?”
“You speak French. We’re in the countryside. Not as many people are going to speak English here.”
“Good point.” She scanned the small square. “Let’s try one of the side streets—that’s where the locals will go.” She struck off and we followed behind like ducklings. She made a left into a narrow street and we hugged the edges as cars squeezed past us.
The sun couldn’t penetrate this part of town and I felt a chill after the sunny warmth of the square. We seemed to be chasing the sun the further south we went, and after leaving the typically damp autumn of the UK, I was loving this extra stretch of summery weather.
“Oooh, that looks promising,” Dani said, pointing to a striped awning ahead. Several tables, all with squares of white paper clipped to them, sat out front. There were no customers yet—it was barely noon and the French don’t typically eat until later—but a waiter, or maybe he was the proprietor, was standing in the doorway, a clean white apron wrapped around his formidable waist.
“Bonjour,” called Dani with a smile. She rattled off some French and he smiled, then gestured to two of the outside tables. He gestured again, asking for help to move them together, which he and Craig managed quickly. Before long we were seated, each with a glass of sparkling water. A giant basket of bread and a small ramekin of pale butter appeared in the middle of the table, and the man handed around one-page menus written entirely in French.
Like the café we’d gone to a couple of nights before, there were three choices for each course, and Dani translated them all for the group. It was a prix fixe menu, which meant we got three courses for only fifteen euros, including a glass of wine. Even if the food was only mediocre, it was a bargain, and after a squashed muesli bar and three headache tablets for breakfast, my stomach was doing gymnastics in anticipation.
I decided on soupe au pistou, salade Niçoise, and tarte aux poires. I’d loved the pear tart in Paris, and I wanted another fix before we left France the next day.
The man arrived with the wine, holding two carafes by the neck in one hand, and five inverted wine glasses threaded between the fingers of his other hand—impressive and probably impossible if he didn’t have such giant hands. I poured wine for my friends and when we all had a glass in hand, proposed a toast. “To unexpected stops and to unexpected friends.”