Jamie Jenkins settles into a sunlit lounge with a glass of wine in hand, a slender, luminous figure framed by soft furnishings and the hush of an afternoon in. Her Union Jack tights cling to lithe, toned thighs, the red, white and blue striping the line of her legs as she curls up on a cream sofa in a loose white vest. Chestnut hair spills over her shoulders, her gaze distant and serene, every pose poised with the quiet grace of a girl who knows the camera is watching and wears the attention lightly.

The vest slips away and Jamie reveals the peachy swell of her breasts, creamy skin set against the patriotic wash of hosiery, a playful tilt of her head and a smile that turns conspiratorial. She folds herself cross-legged on the low table, the window light catching the dewy curve of her waist and the soft rise of her chest, stripes of colour tracing every movement of her hips. There is a painterly stillness to the whole reverie, Jamie transformed into something between pin-up and portrait, the celebration reduced to one gleaming, unhurried figure holding the room.