A moment later, Sharon breezes back into the room with a tray and a folding table. She sets it up on the other side of Miranda’s bed. The pitcher is already frosty from the ice swimming around in the water. A bowl of lemon slices. A teapot covered in a tea towel to keep it warm.
Miranda thinks she might cry. “You’re a wonderful person, Sharon. Have I ever told you that?
Perhaps there’s something in her voice, because Sharon stops arranging the tray and looks at her. She sits down on the edge of the bed and gives Miranda’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “It’s alright. Really. And you have told me that in your own way many times. I think you’re rather splendid too.”
The urge to cry passes, but the damage is done. Her nose requires another session. She sets down the soup carefully, then plucks a tissue from the box. That makes Sharon get up from the bed and say, “Right. Another box of tissues, I think.”
She returns with a fresh box and places it on the bedside table, well within reach.
While the washer churns her dirty clothes into clean ones, they chat. Finally, Miranda remembers what she’d meant to ask Sharon, but hadn’t gotten around to once she got sick. “Oh, I forgot to ask. How did it go?”
“How did what go?”
Miranda makes a yanking gesture. “Getting your thingie removed.”
“Oh, that,” she says, her smile gone.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Miranda asks, sitting up straighter and immediately worried. She’s heard about people having serious side-effects from an IUD. Anyone who’s seen a commercial in America over the last ten years could probably rattle off the rather alarming list of possible side effects. Intrauterine devices are splendidly low maintenance birth control devices, but they come with risks.
Sharon shrugs a little, then brushes the very sparkly ring on her left hand. “Well, I’m okay in that I still have it in me. I didn’t go through with it.”
“You didn’t? But I thought you’d planned it all out.”
That isn’t quite true and Miranda knows it. It’s more like Richard, Sharon’s husband of four months, has it all planned. Sharon is less in on the planning and more on the side of the one who has to carry the plan to fruition.
Sharon doesn’t answer, only giving Miranda a slightly miserable look.
“Does Richard know?”
“Oh, God no. I’m not prepared for that argument quite yet.”
Miranda leans forward, one pillow sliding out and onto the floor with her hasty move. “Sharon, listen to yourself. You can undo this, you know.”
“No, I can’t. Not really.”
Accomplished, beautiful, strong. Those are the words Miranda would use to describe Sharon. They didn’t apply when it came to Sharon’s relationship with Richard. They’d been a couple for ages, but when Richard was promoted to an enviably secure position at his law firm, he’d begun pressuring Sharon for marriage. In the end, Sharon had given in, not wanting to lose him. That sounds straightforward and fairly average, but nothing is simple when it comes to love.
The truth is more complex. Sharon hadn’t been and still isn’t ready for marriage. Not really. Professionally hungry and ready to make her mark, that’s what she really wants to focus on, but it keeps taking a backseat to Richard’s expectations. And now, babies. Richard wants children as soon as possible. He’d teased recently when they were out for drinks that he wanted to get Sharon “locked in” with a baby before she realized she’d married down.
Sharon had laughed, but Miranda had seen something entirely different. Underneath the smile, Miranda had seen the horrified look. Miranda had seen the truth in the words and how hard they hit Sharon.
Leaning back, Miranda pushes the pillows back into place—minus the pillow on the floor—then says, “You can always move in here and share all my germs more completely. I have plenty of germs as well as two empty bedrooms.”
That makes Sharon laugh, which lifts the mood a little. Miranda knows that Sharon will tell Richard in her own time and that someday, she’ll more than likely leave him. It’s just too bad she married him first.
“Well, I’d best get on with things. Your house isn’t going to clean itself.” With a pat on Miranda’s knee, she rises and goes to work.
Two hours later, the house is tidier than it’s been in days. Her kitchen is clean, as is her bathroom. There are fresh sheets on the bed that smell vaguely of lavender. The pillows have been soundly pummeled and fluffed. She’s even wearing a freshly laundered nightgown, a pretty one that Sharon singled out as most likely to aid rehabilitation. The eyelet lace makes it feel dainty, while the breezy cotton makes it feel feminine and light.
Miranda is fully stocked for another evening and night in bed, and under strict instructions not to leave said bed except for the bathroom. Instructions which she promptly disobeys.
Sharon frowns as Miranda appears at the top of the stairs leading to the lower floor. “What are you doing out of bed?” she asks, her words echoing a bit in the sparsely furnished foyer.
“I wanted to give you a key. I can’t hear who’s coming and going up there. I’d feel better if I could lock up.”
The house is a large one, owned by the company Miranda works for. The bottom two floors have been given over to Miranda for the duration of her tour here, while the top floor has been converted into a separate flat with its own entrance in the back. That one is used by company employees sent here on a more temporary basis, though it’s empty now.
Her salary, while generous, could never have supported this house, especially in this well-heeled London neighborhood. All her neighbors are wealthy. She doesn’t know any of them. It makes Miranda feel like a stranger, and that makes her nervous inside the big house all alone.
While it’s true that
