A paparazzo. Of course.
— How did you get in here? I ask coldly.
— It’s a large property, he says with a smile. I was just walking nearby when I saw you. You seem upset. Is it about the photos circulating? Do you have a statement?
— Leave. Now.
— Come on, Jane—can I call you Jane?
— No. You can’t.
— You’re a public figure, he continues, ignoring me. People want to know?—
— What people want is sensation—not the truth, I snap. Now if you don’t leave, I’ll call security.
He steps closer, camera ready, hoping to capture a breakdown.
— Is it true your marriage to McGregor is arranged? A desperate attempt to repair your image after the Los Angeles incident?
— I’m not answering?—
Something moves behind him.
Big. White. Determined.
Hamish.
The sheep charges straight at us, head down, moving far faster than something that size should.
— Watch out! I shout.
The paparazzo turns just in time to get slammed full force. The impact sends him flying into a thick puddle of mud, his camera launching into the air before landing several feet away.
— What the hell! he yells, covered in mud. What is this?!
Hamish isn’t done. He circles him, bleating in what sounds suspiciously like triumphant laughter, then deliberately plants a hoof on the camera, grinding it deeper into the mud.
I should probably help him.
Really.
Instead, I burst out laughing.
— Meet Hamish, I say between gasps. The Highlands’ harshest photography critic.
— Call this thing off! he shouts, trying to stand—only to slip again under Hamish’s watchful eye.
— Sorry, he doesn’t listen to me. We have a complicated relationship.
As if to prove my point, Hamish leaves the camera and moves closer to me, positioning himself almost protectively between us.
— Look, I didn’t mean to offend you, the man stammers, trying to retrieve his camera without getting too close. I’m just doing my job.
— Your job? I repeat, anger flaring again. Your job is trespassing, taking photos without consent, twisting them out of context, and ruining people’s lives for clicks?
— People want to know?—
— No, I cut in. People want entertainment. They want scandal to distract from their own lives. This isn’t journalism—it’s voyeurism.
