She’s in her early thirties. Her hair is brown, approaching auburn, shiny, straight. It touches her shoulders, but only just. She has her slightly upturned nose buried in her book. Pretty Baby, it’s called, by an author who wrote, according to the back cover blurbs, another book, The Good Girl. The reader’s face is long, pretty, caked with a little too much makeup. Her eyes are brilliant green. Her thin lips are pursed in concentration.