Six-and-a-half years later, Lizzy, 21, is a different creature. Immaculately made up, her hair a glossy chestnut, she bounds into the room, pecks me on the cheek, and leads the way to a sofa where she has been chain smoking Marlboro Lights. She's in a khaki top from Mango over skin-tight Mango jeans. "I'm all Mangoed up," she says, "apart from my socks."