The Confession Hour: Secrets in the Conservatory
Setting: The conservatory has grown darker now, the golden afternoon light fading into a dusky amber. Two empty pizza boxes sit on the marble table—one pepperoni, one margherita with a suspicious amount of arugula that neither of them touched. The cookbook has been pushed aside to make room for three empty glasses of prosecco. Catherine Zeta-Jones is lying flat on her back on the chaise, staring at the ceiling, one hand draped dramatically over her forehead like a Victorian heroine in a fever dream. Lady Gaga is cross-legged on the floor, picking at the last remaining pepperoni cup with the reverence of a archaeologist uncovering a fossil. The conversation has devolved into comfortable, wine-soaked nonsense.
Lady Gaga: (Popping the pepperoni into her mouth) “So, as I was saying, the Eastern Rosella—Platycercus eximius—doesn’t just mate for life. They also engage in what ornithologists call ‘allopreening,’ which is basically mutual grooming. They sit together, they preen each other’s feathers, they maintain their social bonds. It’s beautiful, really. It’s like… a plumber and his apprentice, working in tandem on a complex pipe system.”
Catherine: (Still staring at the ceiling, voice flat) “Did you just compare a parrot’s romantic grooming habits to a plumbing apprenticeship?”
Gaga: “I did. And I stand by it. Both require trust. Both require attention to detail. Both involve getting into tight spaces and removing debris. It’s the same thing, Catherine. You’re just too blinded by your hero worship to see it.”
Catherine: (Sighing deeply) “I am not hero-worshipping. I am acknowledging a vital profession. There is a difference. One is rational. The other is… whatever you’re doing with those birds. Are you going to start building shrines to rosellas next? Little altars with seed offerings?”
[Menu]
Gaga: “Don’t give me ideas. My next tour could have a rosella-themed interlude. Neon feathers. Projection mapping. A giant animatronic king-parrot that descends from the ceiling and sings ‘Bad Romance’ in cockatoo. It would be iconic.”
Catherine: (Finally sitting up, her expression unreadable) “You know what else would be iconic? If I told you something. Something I’ve never told anyone. Something deeply, profoundly embarrassing.”
Gaga: (Immediately alert, abandoning the pepperoni) “Oh, this is happening. This is the moment. The prosecco confession. I’ve been waiting for this. Is it about a plumber? Please let it be about a plumber.”
Catherine: (Colouring slightly, which is a feat for someone so famously composed) “It… might be. About a plumber. Specifically.”
Gaga: (Clapping her hands together) “YES. I KNEW IT. You’ve had a torrid affair with a plumber. You met him when he was fixing your bidet. There was a moment. A spark. A wrench dropped dramatically to the floor. Tell me everything.”
Catherine: (Groaning) “It’s not an affair, you absolute menace. It’s worse. Much worse. It’s… I may have… developed a small, irrational, deeply humiliating crush on a plumber. Not Mario. A different one. And it’s not even about him personally. It’s about the… the overalls.”
Gaga: (Eyes wide, leaning forward) “The overalls. You have a plumber-overalls fetish. Catherine Zeta-Jones, Oscar winner, international icon, married to Michael Douglas—has a thing for denim and tool belts.”
Catherine: (Covering her face with both hands) “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew it. You’re going to make this unbearable.”
Gaga: “Unbearable? I’m just getting started. Was it the way the overalls fit? The slight gap at the back when they bend over? The jingle of the wrench when they walk?”
Catherine: (Peeking through her fingers) “It’s not about the fit, you lunatic. It’s about the competence. The quiet confidence. The way they walk into a room, assess the problem with one glance, and then just… fix it. They don’t need a script. They don’t need a director. They don’t need a team of fifty people to tell them how to hold a wrench. They just know. And that… that is intoxicating.”
Gaga: (Absolutely delighted) “So you’re attracted to problem-solving. That’s not embarrassing, Catherine. That’s just you being a control freak who finally met someone who can control pipes better than you can control a red carpet. That’s adorable.”
Catherine: (Dropping her hands, glaring) “It’s not adorable. It’s pathetic. I’m a grown woman. I’ve been married for decades. I have children. And I can’t look at a plumber’s van without feeling a little… flutter. Do you know how many times I’ve accidentally called a plumber for a ‘leak’ that was actually just condensation? Three times. Three times, Gaga. I made up plumbing emergencies just to see him.”
Gaga: (Screaming with laughter) “YOU FAKE-CALLED A PLUMBER? Catherine, that’s the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard, and I once wore a dress made of raw meat.”
Catherine: (Defensively) “It was a very small leak! A drip! Anyone would have been concerned!”
Gaga: “A drip. You called an emergency plumber for a drip. What did he say when he arrived?”
Catherine: (Muttering) “He said, ‘Ma’am, that’s not a leak. That’s just humidity from the shower.’ And I said, ‘Well, fix the humidity, then.’ And he looked at me like I was the stupidest person he’d ever met. And I… I found that incredibly attractive.”
Gaga: (Wiping tears from her eyes) “You found being condescended to by a man in overalls attractive. Catherine, you have layers. You have depth. You have a plumbing problem that no amount of sealant can fix.”
Catherine: (Pointing a finger at her) “Don’t you dare psychoanalyse me. I’ve seen your documentaries about parrots. You have a folder on your phone labelled ‘Rosella Research.’ You’re not exactly playing with a full deck of cards either.”
Gaga: (Unrepentant) “At least my obsession is educational. Yours is a midlife crisis dressed in denim. Does this plumber have a name? Please tell me it’s something ridiculous like Chad or Brock or—”
Catherine: (Miserably) “It’s Gavin.”
Gaga: (Howling) “GAVIN! Of course it’s Gavin! Gavin the Plumber! Catherine, you have to tell me everything. The overalls. The wrench. The way he said ‘humidity’ like it was a personal insult. I need every detail.”
Catherine: (Pouring herself another glass of prosecco, resigned) “Fine. But you have to tell me something embarrassing about your rosella obsession in return. A real confession. No holding back.”
Gaga: (Pausing, suddenly thoughtful) “Alright. Deal. I have… a rosella-themed tattoo. On my left shoulder blade. I got it after my third album. It’s a crimson rosella mid-flight, clutching a microphone in its talons.”
Catherine: (Staring) “That’s not embarrassing. That’s exactly what I expected.”
Gaga: (Wincing) “The embarrassing part is… I named it. The tattoo. Its name is Geoffrey.”
Catherine: (Bursting into laughter, nearly spilling her prosecco) “You named a tattoo Geoffrey? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Geoffrey the Rosella. What does Geoffrey do when you’re not on tour? Does he just… hang out on your shoulder blade?”
Gaga: (Nodding solemnly) “He flies with me. He’s my spirit bird. He’s also my emergency contact. In the event of a medical emergency, the hospital is instructed to call Geoffrey.”
Catherine: (Wiping her eyes) “We are both absolutely unhinged. You have a tattooed bird named Geoffrey. I have a crush on a plumber named Gavin. And we’ve been talking about this for two hours straight without a single productive thought.”
Gaga: (Raising her glass) “To Gavin. May his wrenches always be shiny and his overalls always fit perfectly.”
Catherine: (Clinking her glass) “To Geoffrey. May he live forever inked on your shoulder and never need to be fixed by a plumber.”
Gaga: “And to the rosellas and king-parrots—”
Catherine: “—and the plumbers who keep the world from drowning in its own filth.”
Gaga: “We are a disaster.”
Catherine: (Smiling genuinely) “A magnificent disaster. Now—do you think Gavin would like a tattoo of a rosella? Because I might have just found the perfect conversation starter.”
Gaga: (Grinning) “You are beyond help. But I love you. Now pass the prosecco. Geoffrey is thirsty, and I need to hear more about Gavin’s condescending tone of voice.”
Catherine: (Refilling both glasses) “You’re going to regret asking. But fine. It all started when he looked at my water pressure and said, ‘Ma’am, this system hasn’t been updated since the Reagan administration.’ And I thought, finally, a man who speaks the truth.”
Gaga: (Toasting) “To the truth. To Gavin. To Geoffrey. And to the two most ridiculous conversations in Hollywood history.”
Catherine: “Hear, hear. Now, about the allopreening habits of the Eastern Rosella—”
Gaga: (Screaming) “NO. NO MORE BIRDS. WE’RE DONE WITH BIRDS FOR TODAY.”
Catherine: (Smirking) “Fine. Then tell me more about Geoffrey’s touring schedule. Does he have a rider? Does he require seed packets in the dressing room?”
Gaga: (Groaning, but laughing) “I hate you. I absolutely hate you. And I’m never drinking prosecco with you again.”
Catherine: “You said that last time. And the time before that. And the time you named a tattoo Geoffrey.”
Gaga: “Fair point. Now shut up and let’s order dessert. Gavin deserves a tiramisu.”
Catherine: (Picking up her phone) “You’re impossible.”
Gaga: “And yet, here you are. Two hours later. Still talking about birds, plumbers, and the eternal question of pepperoni. You love me.”
Catherine: (Dialling) “I tolerate you. There’s a difference. Now—what does Geoffrey prefer? Chocolate or vanilla?”
Gaga: “Geoffrey doesn’t eat. He’s a tattoo, Catherine. For goodness sake, keep up.”