It is what a certain kind of man offers you in exchange for your agreement never to ask him for anything that costs him socially — never to ask him to choose you when choosing you might mean crossing his mother, his friends, his standing, his comfort.

The tenderness behind the closed door is real, but it is real the way a coupon is real: valid only under conditions, void where publicly inconvenient.

For eight months Callum had loved me at a discount, and I had accepted the terms, because the affection was genuine as far as it went and I had not wanted to test how far that was.

Now his mother had tested it for me.

She had pushed the price of loving me up to the cost of one uncomfortable sentence spoken in front of twelve people — Mom, that’s enough — and Callum had looked at the price tag and looked at the harbor and declined to pay.

That was all I needed to know.