Polished as a pebble in a pocket, but there’s something about this I can’t warm to, a pall of drabness around it. Maybe it’s the arrangement, stately with prissy chirrups of strings. Maybe it’s Helen’s mopey sultriness: unrequited love songs can be heartbreaking, but they can also be unpleasantly inert and passive. Shapiro’s prematurely smoky voice is quality, but her delivery is distanced and distracted – where’s the motivation for the mystery boy to notice her? Love isn’t a right.