My heart twinges, and something that I haven’t felt for a long time fills me. It's not just sympathy for somebody who's upset; it's a need to make it right. A need to take the hurt away for her. This is not normal for me. I’m not a hero who swoops in to save the day. Yet, I’m compelled to stop her crying. As if I can’t bear it.

This woman acts tough, but maybe her argumentative streak is a cover for a much more vulnerable interior.

Walking toward her, I take the stool by her and sit. I'm not sure what to say, and I don't want to make things worse. I suck at this kind of thing.

“It's all cleaned up now.” I go with the facts at first.

She glances up and gives a brief nod. Wiping at her eyes briskly, she stands, walks to the fridge, and pours more wine. That's on top of what she had to drink in the bar and the large glass she’s clearly finished while I was checking outside. I'm not moralistic, but if she gets messy every night, it's gonna make my job harder. If she's in a deep sleep because she's drunk, and I need to move fast, she's a liability.

Her father’s words, and her friend’s, echo in my head. They both clearly know she has a self-destructive streak and the tendency to drink too much when she’s stressed or upset.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Christ, why did I think protecting someone and keeping them alive would be easier than taking people out?

I thought I wanted to change my trajectory and do some good for once. I’d grown weary of taking lives. Sickened by it on one level. I thought I could save them instead, but no one tells you that to save a life, you have to interact with the person. Being a bodyguard seemingly isn’t just about carrying a gun and going bang-bang at the bad guys. I’m a shrink, policeman, and babysitter all rolled into one, and that’s not what I envisaged when I took this job. “Carolina, I understand you're stressed, but I really don't think you should keep drinking.”

She slams her hand on the counter. “Jesus, just stop. You're not the morality police, and you're not the boss of me, so shut up.” She takes a big sip of the wine.

“It's nothing to do with morality; I promise you that. If something happens, then we need to move fast; your reactions are going to be blurred.”

She sets the glass down and turns to face me. “Do you know what it's like to have a panic attack?”