Songs of Regre

 Arthur Pendelton was a man whose entire personality was built upon the sturdy, unshakeable foundation of a rainy Tuesday afternoon. He was currently standing in the “Songs of Regret” aisle of a dusty independent record shop in Crouch End, clutching a vinyl copy of Neil Diamond’s *Moods* like a holy relic.

Clara, the shop’s owner—who had hair the colour of an over-steeped Earl Grey and an allergy to small talk—leaned over the counter.

“It’s a bit maudlin, isn’t it, Arthur? Even for you. You’re practically vibrating with existential gloom.”

Arthur blinked, adjusting his glasses. “It’s not gloom, Clara. It’s... nuance. *Song Sung Blue*. Everyone knows it. It’s the anthem of the chronically disappointed.”

“It’s a song about how being sad is actually quite nice if you have a decent melody to back it up,” she countered, clicking her tongue. “You’re not supposed to take it as a life philosophy. You’re supposed to take it as a reason to buy a gin and tonic.”

Arthur sighed, a sound that held the weight of three failed relationships and a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. “I just feel that my life is currently a B-side track that nobody bothered to press.”

Just then, the shop door jingled—a discordant, jarring sound—and in walked Beatrice. Beatrice was a walking contradiction: she wore neon yellow rain boots with a sensible beige trench coat, and she was currently humming *Song Sung Blue* with a cheerfulness that felt like a personal insult to Arthur’s aesthetic.

“Excuse me,” Beatrice said, vibrating with a chaotic, unearned optimism. “Do you have anything that sounds like a pub singalong but feels like a cry in a lift?”

Arthur looked at Clara. Clara looked at Arthur.

“He’s your man,” Clara said, gesturing to Arthur. “He’s the resident expert in musical misery.”

Beatrice beamed at Arthur, her eyes crinkling in a way that made his stomach do a rather distressing flip-flop. “Oh, brilliant! I’m Beatrice. I’ve had the most disastrous week. I accidentally joined a competitive ballroom dancing class instead of a knitting circle, and I’ve been wearing tap shoes to work for three days because I was too embarrassed to say anything.”

Arthur looked at the woman who had spent seventy-two hours clattering through her office in search of a pearl purl. He looked down at his Neil Diamond record.

“*Song sung blue, everybody knows one,*” Arthur quoted, his voice cracking slightly.

“*Me and you are subject to the blues now and then,*” Beatrice finished, grinning.

They stood there, two strangers in a shop that smelled of old cardboard and unfulfilled potential, sharing the lyrics like a secret handshake. It was, perhaps, the most British meet-cute in history: damp, slightly awkward, and heavily reliant on mid-70s soft rock.

“I’m Arthur,” he said, finally putting the record back on the shelf. “And I think I’ve been singing the wrong version of this song.”

“Oh?” Beatrice tilted her head.

“Yes,” Arthur said, finding a courage he didn't know he possessed. “I think I’d much rather listen to it with someone who doesn’t mind that I’m completely incapable of ballroom dancing.”

“I’m excellent at being bad at it,” Beatrice offered. “It’s my primary skill set.”

Clara rolled her eyes, turned the shop sign to ‘Closed,’ and picked up a bottle of gin from behind the counter. “Right. Stop quoting at each other. It’s nauseating. Arthur, take her to the pub. And for heaven’s sake, stop looking like you’re waiting for a bus that’s never going to come.”

Arthur looked at Beatrice, then at the record, then at the rain-streaked window. It was, undeniably, a very grey day. But for the first time in a decade, he didn't mind the blue.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Arthur asked. “I’m told it’s the only way to properly appreciate the blues.”

Beatrice grabbed his arm, her neon yellow boot catching on the rug. “I thought you’d never ask. But I’m warning you, if the jukebox has anything upbeat, I might start a riot.”

“Good,” Arthur said, genuinely smiling. “I’d hate for us to be happy on the first date.”