The Final Stand: Tradesmen, Tantrums, and Trogons
Setting: The conservatory is now shrouded in near-darkness, lit only by a single flickering candle that has burned down to a sad, waxy nub. Four empty prosecco bottles. Two pizza boxes. Three crumpled napkins. A cookbook face-down on the floor. Lady Gaga is cross-legged on the marble, still scrolling through her phone, occasionally showing Catherine sketches of copper pipe dresses that Catherine pretends to appreciate. Catherine is swaying slightly on the chaise, her silk blouse now untucked, her hair escaping its careful updo in wild, frazzled tendrils. The prosecco has done its work. The conversation has reached its breaking point.
Lady Gaga: (Scrolling) “And this one—this one is my favourite. The ‘Plunger Purse.’ It’s a handbag shaped like a plunger, but the handle is detachable and doubles as a legitimate plumbing tool. I call it ‘Fashion Meets Function.’ I think it’s genius.”
Catherine: (Staring blankly at the ceiling) “Genius. Yes. Absolutely. A plunger purse. The world has been waiting for this. Next you’ll design a toilet brush necklace.”
Gaga: (Without irony) “I have sketches. The bristles are made of recycled materials. It’s eco-friendly. It’s—”
Catherine: (Suddenly sitting bolt upright, her eyes wild) “STOP. STOP TALKING ABOUT PLUMBERS AND PURSES AND PIPES AND PARROTS. I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.”
Gaga: (Startled, dropping her phone) “What? What happened? Did I say something wrong? Was it the toilet brush necklace? I knew it was too much. I knew it—”
[Menu]
Catherine: (Standing up unsteadily, clutching the back of the chaise for balance) “It’s not the necklace. It’s not the purse. It’s not even your ridiculous tool belt or your Brenda from Toledo or your Geoffrey the tattooed rosella. It’s EVERYTHING. It’s been THREE HOURS. THREE HOURS, GAGA. We have discussed nothing but plumbers, rosellas, king-parrots, and pizza. I have revealed my deepest, most shameful secret about Gavin. You have revealed your deepest, most shameful secret about Brenda. And I am DONE.”
Gaga: (Standing up slowly, hands raised in surrender) “Okay. Okay. Calm down. We can talk about something else. We can talk about—”
Catherine: (Grabbing her paper cup—the last remaining vessel of prosecco—and holding it aloft like a tragic Shakespearean heroine) “I LOVE ALL TRADESMEN! DO YOU HEAR ME? ALL OF THEM! PLUMBERS! ELECTRICIANS! CARPENTERS! ROOFERS! TILERS! THE MAN WHO FIXED MY GARAGE DOOR LAST SPRING! THE WOMAN WHO REPLACED MY WATER HEATER IN 2019! I LOVE THEM ALL! THEY ARE THE UNSUNG HEROES OF CIVILISATION! THEY KEEP OUR HOMES STANDING AND OUR TOILETS FLUSHING AND OUR LIGHTS ON AND I CANNOT DISCUSS IT FOR ONE MORE SECOND!”
Gaga: (Backing away slowly) “Catherine, put the cup down. Please. It’s paper. It’s not even glass. You can’t make a dramatic exit with a paper cup. It’s not—”
Catherine: (Hurling the paper cup at the floor with all her might) “THAT’S ENOUGH! I’M LEAVING!”
Gaga: (Watching the paper cup bounce harmlessly off the marble and roll under the chaise) “That was… that was very dramatic. Very theatrical. The cup really sold it.”
Catherine: (Stomping toward the door, then turning back, pointing a trembling finger) “You stay here. You stay here with your birds and your plumbing certificates and your plunger hats. I’m going to bed. I’m going to sleep. And when I wake up, I’m going to call Gavin and tell him I have a pipe that needs fixing. A REAL pipe. Not a fake one. And I’m going to look him in the eye and I’m not going to blush. And THEN I’m going to be free.”
Gaga: (Trying very hard not to laugh) “That sounds like a solid plan. Very empowering. Very feminist. You go do that.”
Catherine: (Pausing at the door, wobbling slightly) “And you—you and your rosellas—you can have the conservatory. It’s yours. I’m done. I’M DONE.”
Gaga: (Saluting) “I accept this conservatory as tribute. Geoffrey will be very pleased.”
Catherine: (Slamming the door behind her with considerably less force than intended, her exit punctuated by the distant sound of her footsteps stumbling up the stairs and a muffled “OW” as she presumably stubbed her toe on something.)
Gaga: (Standing alone in the dim conservatory, surveying the wreckage) “Well. That happened.”
She stands there for a moment, listening to the sounds of Catherine’s retreat—another muffled curse, a door closing somewhere upstairs, silence. The candle flickers. The pizza boxes smell like regret. The paper cup lies forgotten under the chaise.
Gaga: (Sighing, picking up the empty prosecco bottles) “Fine. Fine, I’ll clean up. I’m the responsible one now. The certified plumbing student. The parrots expert. The—”
She bends down to grab the cookbook from the floor, and as she does, her hand brushes against something else. Something leather-bound. Something heavy. She pulls it out from under the chaise, blowing dust off the cover.
Gaga: (Reading aloud, squinting in the dim light) “A Complete Field Guide to Australian Parrots and Songbirds… with Hand-Painted Illustrations by… oh my god, Catherine had this the whole time? This is a first edition. This is—” She flips it open reverently. “This is incredible.”
She sinks back down to the floor, cross-legged, the book balanced on her knees, the chaos of the evening forgotten. The candle gutters. The prosecco bottles glint in the half-light. And Lady Gaga begins to thumb through the pages, her voice a soft, awestruck murmur.
Gaga: “Oh, look at you. Crimson Rosella. Platycercus elegans. The blue cheek patches, the red breast—you’re magnificent. You’re a masterpiece. Catherine would hate you, which makes me love you more.”
She turns the page.
Gaga: “Eastern Rosella. Platycercus eximius. Yellow and red and green—you look like a Christmas decoration that escaped. I love you. I would die for you. I would—” She squints at the illustration. “Wait, is that a feeding tube? No, it’s a nest. You’re nesting. That’s adorable. That’s aggressively adorable.”
Another page.
Gaga: “King-Parrot. Alisterus scapularis. We’ve discussed you at length, my friend. Twenty-five to thirty years. Monogamous. Gorgeous. You’re the swan of the parrot world, except you’re actually interesting. Catherine probably doesn’t know that. She’s too busy thinking about Gavin’s wrench.”
She flips again, faster now, her excitement building.
Gaga: “Rainbow Lorikeet. Trichoglossus moluccanus. Look at those colours. Blue and orange and green and yellow—you look like a bag of Skittles had a baby with a tropical sunset. I want to write a song about you. I want to name my next album after you. ‘Lorikeet’—that’s a good title. That’s a very good title.”
Another page.
Gaga: “Red-winged Parrot. Aprosmictus erythropterus. Bold. Striking. Very metal. You look like you should be on the cover of a heavy metal album. The red wings, the green body—you’re a rockstar. I know a rockstar when I see one.”
She pauses, tilting the book toward the candle to see better.
Gaga: “Swift Parrot. Lathamus discolor. Critically endangered. Oh, you poor thing. You’re beautiful and you’re struggling. I understand that. I relate to that. I want to protect you. I want to build you a tiny little habitat in my backyard. I want to—” She stops, squinting. “Wait. Is that your habitat? Is that a eucalyptus tree? Yes. Yes, it is. You love eucalyptus. You’re a koala with wings. I’m obsessed.”
Another page, another gasp.
Gaga: “Blue-winged Kookaburra. Not a parrot, but I don’t care. You’re stunning. The blue wings, the white head, the fierce little eyes—you look like you’re about to laugh at me, which honestly, after tonight, fair.”
She flips faster, pages blurring.
Gaga: “Galah. Beautiful. Pink and grey. You look like a flamingo that got into a fight with a cloud. I love you. I’m adding you to the list.”
Gaga: “Australian Ringneck. Barnardius zonarius. The yellow collar is gorgeous. You’re a bird with a necklace. You’re me. I’m you. We’re the same.”
Gaga: “Musk Lorikeet. Tiny. Green. Red mask. You look like a little bandit. I bet you steal hearts. I bet you steal seeds. I bet—”
She stops, her finger hovering over an illustration.
Gaga: (In a whisper) “Double-eyed Fig-Parrot. Oh my god. You’re barely bigger than my thumb. You’re the smallest parrot in Australia. You’re a secret. You’re hidden. You’re beautiful and nobody knows about you. I know about you. I see you. I see all of you.”
She sets the book down gently, staring at the open page, her face soft in the candlelight.
Gaga: (Quietly) “Catherine had this the whole time. She never mentioned it. She never said a word. She was too busy faking water leaks and crushing on a plumber named Gavin. But this—this is the real treasure. This is three hours of conversation that should have been.”
She looks up at the closed door, a tiny, amused smile on her face.
Gaga: “You’re missing all of this, Catherine. You’re missing the Double-eyed Fig-Parrot. You’re missing the Swift Parrot. You’re missing the whole damned rainbow. But I’m here. Geoffrey’s here. And we’re going to stay up all night and learn every single one of these beautiful, ridiculous, colourful creatures. And tomorrow, I’m going to tell you about them. And you’re going to pretend to listen. And we’re going to do this all over again.”
She picks up the book, hugging it to her chest.
Gaga: (To the empty room) “To the rosellas. To the king-parrots. To the lorikeets and the galahs and the fig-parrots and the ringnecks. And to the plumbers, God bless them, who keep the water running so we can wash our hands after we touch the pages.”
She leans back, book open, candle sputtering, and begins to read aloud again, her voice a soft, steady lullaby of birdsong.
Gaga: “The Regent Parrot. Polytelis anthopeplus. Yellow and green and black. You look like a sunset over the outback. You look like—”
And somewhere upstairs, Catherine Zeta-Jones, lying in bed with a pillow over her head, mutters to herself: “She’s still going. She’s still reading about the birds. I can hear her. I can hear her through the floor. I married a plumber in my next life. I swear it.”
But she smiles. And she doesn’t fall asleep for another hour, listening to the distant, muffled sound of her friend’s voice listing the names of birds she’ll never remember.
Gaga: (Faintly, through the floorboards) “—the Golden-shouldered Parrot. Psephotus chrysopterygius. Critically endangered. You’re a treasure. You’re all treasures. Every single one of you…”
The candle finally dies. The conservatory goes dark. And Lady Gaga sits in the blackness, book open on her lap, whispering the names of birds like a prayer.