Hayley Marie Coppin is meant to be working, leaning over a sleek black breakfast bar in a fluffy charcoal jumper, grey cotton shorts, and red and black knee-high stripey socks, her sun-kissed blonde hair pouring down her back as she taps at a silver laptop. The kitchen is white and clean and full of light, and Hayley is athletic and luminous within it, long bronzed legs stretching from the hem of those tiny shorts to the cuff of those bold socks. She glances back across one shoulder with a slow, commanding little smile.

The shaggy jumper slides from her shoulders and she sinks to the wooden floor by the oven in just a gingham bra-and-knicker set and her stripey knee-highs, knees drawn up, every line of her toned stomach and softly tanned thighs on show. Then even the gingham gives way, and she stands again at the worktop with her back arched and her pert, peachy bottom catching the window light, only the red and black stripes still climbing her calves. She looks back over her shoulder one last time, magnetic and entirely in charge, and the laptop is the very last thing on anyone's mind.