Pulling her mirror compact from the depths of her overflowing carrier bag, the girl began to apply gloss to her glacé-cherry lips. As she balanced on the back of the bench, her booted feet resting on the seat, she smacked her lips together with a pantomime pout. Some of the men in hard hats downed tools, reckoning up if she was old enough for their wolf whistles to pass. Her unbuttoned denim jacket delineated her blossoming bosom; her skirt was hitched high up her suntanned thighs. All make-up, glitter and sparkle, penny-farthing earrings and sweet perfume. Her fingers jangled the coins in her pocket. The exact change for her bus. She waited, pretending to ignore the stir of excitement from the other side of the road. As she readjusted the earpiece of her headphones, the music screeched like tyres on wet tarmac. A surge of energy rippled through her and a smile stole across her face. She was sixteen years old and knew her power. The kind of girl boys worshipped, mothers hated and fathers wanted to fuck.