The Gift by Portia Da Costa

her was a shock. She’s expected Jay, of course. Sixth, seventh and eighth senses had known it was him. But what she hadn’t foreseen was the bunch of roses. For a big hard man, he held them lightly and they looked strangely natural in his grasp. Most guys were nervous and awkward when presenting floral tributes or bribes to the feminine object of their interest, yet Jay didn’t seem uneasy or uncomfortable in the slightest as he strode towards her, dwarfing the room in the way the car-park workmen never had.
    ‘I hope you like roses.’
    Every eye in the café was riveted upon her and Jay, and there was a wolf whistle from the general direction of the work gang, accompanied by commentary.
    ‘Eh up, flowers! What’s he after, luv?’
    ‘Get in there, my son!’
    Jay grinned good-naturedly and held out his offering, peace or otherwise.
    ‘Thanks, they’re lovely.’
    And they were. Just a cheapish bunch from the shop down below, but they were soft velvety blooms, that seductive peachy pink and heavily scented.
    ‘They reminded me of you,’ said Jay, as she took them. ‘All moist and pink and fragrant.’ His eyes dead level, commanding hers, he licked his lips, the action slow, drawn out and lascivious.
    Oh, way to be subtle, you swine!
    So, not romance at all, just a sexual prompt, reminding her of his mouth between her legs. Not that she needed much reminding. The things he’d done to her and with her had been burning in her imagination and her memory since he’d left. She couldn’t stop thinking about them, even if she’d tried. And she hadn’t actually tried all that hard anyway.
    ‘I’ll put them in water,’ she said briskly, trying to get a grip. ‘What can I get for you?’
    His mouth, the one that had wreaked so much havoc, quirked in an evil smile.
    ‘Besides that,’ she added crisply.
    ‘A tall black coffee, please, and something sweet and sticky. Whatever you’ve got. I’ll take pot luck. I’ll be over here.’ He nodded to a table by the window, the one where she’d watched him from earlier.
    Face nearly as pink as the roses, Sandy marched away, flinging over her shoulder, ‘Right you are. Kat will bring you a coffee and a mince pie over, while I deal with these.’
    Male laughter, from the workmen and from Jay, rumbled through the room as she scuttled off along the little corridor to the cloakroom. There was a flower vase under the sink in the W.C. for café patrons.
    The odour of potpourri already filled the little cloakroom, and that coupled with the roses meant the confined space smelt like an old-fashioned nineteen fifties call girl’s boudoir. Sandy opened the top window a little way, afraid the heady mix would make her dizzy.
    ‘Flowers! Why did you have to bring flowers?’ she muttered, fumbling with the stems and slopping water on the marble counter surrounding the sink. The little room had an intimate ambience and, though she’d never before thought of it as sexy, she did now. Thanks to Jay Bentley, she thought of everything as sexy today.
    The roses made her think of writhing on a bed, surrounded by their petals, like in that famous film image. She’d be naked and he’d be working his way up from her toes to the zones he’d visited last night.
    The water made her think of being naked in a shower with him, bonking hard against a white-tiled wall, tears of relief and pleasure blending with the torrent streaming down her face.
    As she stood in front of the vanity unit, bizarre fantasies floated through her mind. Looking in the mirror, she was a courtesan, preparing for her lover, a mysterious man who’d come from nowhere bringing roses and effortless pleasure with him, and offering no background, no explanations.
    ‘What are you doing in Kissley, you git?’ she demandedof the absent Jay as she mopped up the spill with tissues and flung them in the bin. ‘I know you’re here for me today – at least I hope you are – but I still don’t know how you came to be here