Carly Thorpe arrives ready to play in a crisp white tank, a navy tennis skirt, slouchy grey ribbed over-the-knee socks and bright pink and white trainers, her platinum blonde ponytail bouncing as she squares up over a tennis ball with racquet in hand. Set against a clean white backdrop she looks every inch the bronzed, athletic pin-up, all sculpted shoulders, flat tanned tummy, and statuesque legs that the long ribbed socks only make leggier. She crouches low on her trainers, glancing back with a sly smile that says practice is going to take a while.

The tank gets tugged up to bare her full, sun-kissed breasts, and Carly drops to the floor with the racquet held mischievously across her chest, knees parted, tennis balls scattered around her hips and those grey socks still pulled high on her thighs. There is something gloriously cheeky about it, the way she holds the strings just so, eyes bright above a teasing grin. She rises again to bounce a ball ready to serve, ponytail swinging, and you can practically hear her daring you to volley back.