Pretty In Pink

Amelia Z leans on an oak banister in a cosy front room, wrapped head to toe in bubblegum-pink activewear that turns the muted earth tones of the space, hardwood floors, a cast-iron log burner, pampas grass feathering from a wicker basket, into her personal backdrop. The zip-front top hugs her torso like a wetsuit, and the matching leggings disappear into white ankle socks that give the whole outfit a pyjama-party innocence. Her blonde hair is curled into soft, bouncy waves, her cross pendant sits at the base of her throat, and her expression hovers somewhere between Sunday-morning sweet and I-dare-you mischief. Pretty In Pink barely does her justice.

The zip drops first, tooth by tooth, and Amelia tugs the top above her head while kneeling on the floor, her bare chest catching the soft lamplight that bounces off the log burner's glass door. She retreats to the grey armchair, a purple velvet cushion propping her up as she reclines in nothing but the pink leggings, her breasts settling naturally against her ribcage, her necklace glinting in the hollow of her throat. By the final frame the leggings have gone and Amelia stands at the banister in a wisp of hot-pink lace and those white socks, twisting a lock of hair around one finger with the guileless smile of someone who has just unwrapped a present. The wrapping paper, in this case, is on the floor, and the gift is all hers.