It was May 2019, opening week of the Stratford Festival. Everything that you had been working towards in your role as Music Director for two of the plays debuting was coming together. For weeks you had been talking about the Gala, and how I had to have a dress. You told me over and over again that you had a budget of $10,000 to buy the most beautiful gown for me to wear. You wanted me wearing diamonds and looking flashy. I was to stand out in a crowd. Except you didn’t listen to me. I am a frugal woman, who could never justify spending that much money (even if it wasn’t mine) on a dress. I am an introvert, who hates crowds, and small talk with strangers.
As April wore on, we hadn’t gone for the big shopping day you kept promising, and secretly I was relieved. Except I was also dreading the night of the Gala and having nothing to wear. As a curvy woman, I was especially dreading shopping, as you would constantly send me links to websites to look at, that didn’t even carry my size. I tried pointing this out, but you seemed to think that you were special enough to make the right size dress magically appear from these famous Canadian Designers.
Slowly opening week inched closer and closer. We were discussing the schedules and where we had to be when, it was slightly exciting, which surprised this introvert. Then suddenly, you had a work trip to take. You had to fly to London, England, then travel to the “other” Stratford for a planning event for some hush-hush upcoming event in 2020 involving Shakespeare around the world.
I was so confused.
Why would your boss, the person in charge of the Stratford Festival, who “demanded” that you attend opening night of your shows, send you on a last-minute trip around the world? Surely it could be delayed? Surely this was a mistake? Yet no, it couldn’t be, and you had to leave during what was supposed to be the biggest week of your career that year.
During the time that you were away, you were constantly in contact. Texting, or calling, always needing to know what I was doing and when, despite being on another continent. I often questioned the time zone change, and how you could be awake. Didn’t you work a full day of meetings? Aren’t you tired? Yet no, you somehow managed to still be on Ontario time. You kept talking of the gifts and souvenirs you picked up for me, my kids and your kids. It was super sweet. As an avid postcard collector, all I wanted was a cool postcard. That’s it, nothing too special, or hard to find.
Your flight back to Canada was on a Friday night, which was also the opening night for your last performance, and you were adamant that you were going to make it. Your boss had your flights booked so that you would make it. I had my doubts that you were even in England by this point, but I had no solid proof. I asked you about your flight, and you provided me with details of a flight. I was able to track that flight on an app, so I knew that it was real.
When you arrived in Toronto, you texted that your assistant Shirley was driving you back to Stratford, but that you decided to have Shirley bring your things and drive you to my house. I was excited to see you, as a good girlfriend should be, but concerned about you missing opening night. You had made it sound like you would be fired if you missed it. From the time that your plane landed, to the time you arrived at my house, was the length of time it takes to drive from Stratford to Tillsonburg – not Toronto to Tillsonburg. (That ignores collecting checked baggage, etc.) You claimed that you surprised me, and texted from the halfway point of the drive, yet I had been tracking the flight, and that meant you were driving while the plane was still flying.
You were happy and smiling when you arrived. The gifts that you bought were not with you, as you “had no room in your suitcase and mailed them to my house.” I found that super odd, but who am I to judge?
It’s 2022 now though so the souvenirs must be long lost by Canada Post.
You did have one thing in your bag for me though. A coffee cup, for my growing collection. You travelled all the way to England, to “be given a welcome package of items from Stratford’s around the world” and it included the mug that I liked from the local shop you frequented. You were so happy with yourself. You found it hilarious that the mug was in the welcome package halfway around the world.
Except, again, you didn’t listen to me. I had never pointed out that mug to you as one I liked. I am particular about mugs and how they feel in my hand. I remember picking that one up, but I quickly put it down, as it didn’t feel right. For the next month, I would drink coffee out of that mug, but only because you made me a cup of poisoned brew before I even woke up, trying to surprise me. I still don’t know what you put in those cups of coffee, but they never tasted the way it was when I made them, and I would take a sip, and upon tasting that bitter taste that wasn’t right, I would never finish them.
Thank goodness I had a notorious habit of losing my coffee cup everywhere, and then making a fresh cup, instead of looking for the lost one.
That whole weekend after your trip, I wrestled with whether or not you really took the trip. I had no proof one way or another, and it bothered me. When you didn’t show up for opening night, there was no repercussions. Nothing happened, which told me that you were not missed, or important there.
At one point, I took a peek in your notebook while you were in the shower. I was desperate to know if there was anything in there that gave a clue what you did that week… And there it was on your to do list… “Delete Grindr”…
Truth and Recovery 