Helen G perches on a bright yellow sun lounger out on the grass, grinning up at the camera like a secret is about to tumble out of her. She is toned and willowy, her dark bob framing an impish face, and from hip to ankle she is poured into a pair of tights printed all over with vintage comic panels, loud splashes of colour against the lush green lawn. Her top has already slipped low, bare shoulders catching the sun, a small star tattoo winking just above her breast, and her forearm is tucked across her chest in that teasing half-cover that is more invitation than concealment.

She curls her sculpted legs beneath her, toes pointed in little white trainers, and leans forward so her dewy shoulders glow against the acid-yellow canvas. The printed nylon grips every peachy contour of her thigh, every lean line of her calf, turning her lower half into a moving strip of superhero colour while the rest of her stays playfully uncovered. A hand slides over her bare belly, the other keeps her modesty by a whisper, and Helen grins wider, a pinup heroine in comic-strip tights enjoying every second of the garden sun.