Shelley Roberts is already at work when the door swings open, caught in profile at a red desk with a red anglepoise lamp glowing beside her laptop, her platinum blonde hair spilling over a fitted little black dress. Black seamed stockings with suspender clips stretch up her toned legs, one stiletto hooked around the chrome base of the scarlet swivel chair, her glossy mouth set in quiet concentration. The whole scene is red, black and porcelain skin, a cool executive tableau built for interruption.

By the middle frames Shelley has turned to face the lens, parting the neckline of the dress to reveal a creamy, full decolletage and leaning forward with her shapely thighs open across the chair, the stocking tops and suspender straps visible beneath the hem. In the late image the dress has slipped to her waist, one arrestingly lush breast cradled in her own hand and the dark lace of her briefs peeking over those sheer stockings, her gaze levelled at the camera with boardroom composure. It is a working day that quietly, deliberately becomes hers.