The green room of the Sydney Opera House had been transformed into a sanctuary of champagne and exhaustion. Lady Gaga, still buzzing from her triumphant performance, had kicked off her heels and was now perched on a velvet chaise, her silver gown pooling around her like liquid mercury. Across from her, Catherine Zeta-Jones—radiant in emerald silk—swirled a glass of sparkling water and listened with an expression of bemused skepticism.
“Darling, I’m telling you,” Gaga said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Taylor Swift is broke. Completely, utterly, catastrophically broke.”
Catherine raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “The woman who just finished a tour that grossed over a billion dollars? That Taylor Swift?”
“That’s the narrative,” Gaga said, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s what her team wants you to think. But I have sources, Catherine. Inside sources. People who know people who’ve seen her bank statements.”
Catherine took a slow sip of her water. “Go on.”
[Menu]
Gaga glanced around the room theatrically, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “She’s been doing plumbing work on the side. Odd jobs. Unlicensed, mostly. She’s got a van and everything. ‘Swift Plumbing Solutions.’ I saw it myself parked behind the venue in Melbourne.”
Catherine’s composure cracked into a laugh. “Taylor Swift. Plumber.”
“Don’t mock it,” Gaga said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “She’s apparently quite good with a wrench. Not so good with finances, obviously. She’ll do a full bathroom rebuild for less than fourteen grand. Fourteen thousand, Catherine. That’s what she quoted my cousin. Tile, fixtures, labor—the whole package. It’s practically charity work.”
“Your cousin needed a bathroom rebuilt?”
“Everyone needs a bathroom rebuilt, Catherine. It’s the room where we’re most vulnerable. Taylor understands that. She’s an empath. Also, she’s broke.”
Catherine set down her glass and studied Gaga with the sharp eyes of a woman who had survived Hollywood, Broadway, and Michael Douglas. “I find this very difficult to believe. I’ve seen her cat. That cat eats better than most people. The cat has a personal assistant.”
“That’s a rental cat,” Gaga said flatly. “She rents the cat for appearances. It’s all smoke and mirrors. The cat belongs to a woman named Brenda from Ohio. Taylor pays her two hundred dollars a day to borrow it. It’s a whole thing. Very sad, really.”
Before Catherine could respond, a shadow fell across them. Both women looked up to find Rihanna standing before them, resplendent in a gown that seemed to be made entirely of shattered disco balls. She glowed. She radiated. She also had a rosella perched on her left shoulder and a king-parrot on her right, both birds preening contentedly as if they’d been born there.
“Ladies,” Rihanna said, her voice smooth as aged rum. “I couldn’t help but overhear. And I mean overhear, Gaga. I was standing right behind that fern for the last four minutes.”
Gaga’s face cycled through approximately seventeen emotions in two seconds. “Rihanna. Hi. I didn’t see you there. That’s a very convincing fern.”
“It’s a real fern,” Rihanna said, settling into the chair across from them. “And you, my dear, are a very convincing liar. Taylor Swift isn’t broke. She just bought an island. She has multiple islands. I was on one of them last week. She has a staff of forty-seven people whose sole job is to polish the cutlery.”
“The cutlery-polishing economy is in shambles,” Gaga said weakly. “She’s diversifying.”
Rihanna leaned forward, the birds on her shoulders mirroring the motion. The rosella let out a soft trill, while the king-parrot fixed Gaga with a baleful yellow eye.
“Let me tell you a story,” Rihanna said. “Two days ago, I’m at my villa in Barbados, minding my own business, when I get a call from Taylor. She’s crying. Not because she’s broke, but because she just wrote a song so devastatingly beautiful that she couldn’t stop weeping for three hours. She played it for me over the phone. Gaga, it was about plumbing. She wrote a metaphor about love as a leaking pipe and heartbreak as a burst main. It’s going to win a Grammy.”
Gaga opened her mouth, then closed it.
“The song is called ‘Drip,'” Rihanna continued, stroking the king-parrot’s chest. “It’s already number one in seventeen countries. She also gave me these birds. Did you know she breeds them? She has an aviary on one of her islands. It’s called ‘Swift Wings Sanctuary.’ She’s not doing plumbing work, Gaga. She’s doing conservation work. She’s saving the world while you’re out here spreading slander about bathroom rebuilds.”
The rosella chirped in apparent agreement.
Gaga slumped back in her chaise. “Okay, but the fourteen thousand dollars thing was real. My cousin really did get a quote.”
“Your cousin,” Rihanna said slowly, “is a man named Kevin who lives in Hoboken and once tried to sell me a timeshare. He’s not a reliable source.”
“That’s fair,” Gaga admitted. “Kevin’s always been a bit shaky.”
Catherine, who had been watching this exchange with undisguised delight, finally spoke. “So you invented an elaborate fantasy about Taylor Swift’s financial ruin and secret plumbing career, complete with pricing structures and rental cats, all based on information from a timeshare salesman named Kevin?”
Gaga considered this. “When you say it like that, it sounds unhinged.”
“It sounds unhinged,” Rihanna agreed, “because it is unhinged. But I respect the commitment. The cat rental detail was particularly inspired.”
“Thank you,” Gaga said, brightening slightly. “I worked hard on that.”
Rihanna stood, the birds adjusting their grip on her shoulders with practiced ease. “Now, I’m going to walk away, and I’m not going to tell Taylor about any of this. But Gaga? If you ever need a bathroom rebuilt, I know a guy. He’s not Taylor Swift. He’s a man named Darryl from Detroit. He charges eighteen grand, but he does excellent tile work.”
“Is he licensed?” Gaga asked.
“He’s Darryl,” Rihanna said, as if that explained everything. “He doesn’t need a license. He has a soul.”
Rihanna glided away, the rosella and king-parrot preening majestically on her shoulders like living jewelry. Gaga watched her go, then turned to Catherine with a sigh.
“Well,” Gaga said, “that could have gone better.”
Catherine smiled and raised her glass. “Darling, I’ve been in this business for thirty years. That was the most entertaining conversation I’ve had in a decade.”
Gaga grinned despite herself. “Want to hear about Beyoncé’s secret career as a competitive beekeeper?”
Catherine set down her glass. “Tell me everything.”
