The morning sun over Sydney Harbour was gentler than the previous day’s blaze, a soft apology for the emotional carnage of the afternoon before. Catherine Zeta-Jones stood at her floor-to-ceiling window, watching the ferries cut white trails across the water, and felt something she hadn’t expected: hope. Or perhaps it was just the caffeine from her third espresso. Either way, it was an improvement.
The plumber—whose name, she had finally learned, was Barry—stood in her foyer, looking deeply uncomfortable. He was a large man, all shoulders and calloused hands, with the kind of weathered face that suggested he’d spent decades squinting at pipes in dark crawl spaces. His tool belt hung from his hips like a gunslinger’s holster, though today it seemed to weigh him down rather than empower him.
“I don’t understand,” Barry said, his voice a low rumble. “You said there was an emergency. A burst pipe. A catastrophic failure.”
“There is,” Lady Gaga said, gliding into the room in a dress made entirely of what appeared to be repurposed Sydney Opera House sailcloth, adorned with crystals that caught the light like scattered stars. A sulphur-crested cockatoo perched on her shoulder, eyeing Barry with suspicion. “A catastrophic failure of the spirit. A burst pipe of the soul.”
Barry blinked. “What?”
Rihanna appeared from the kitchen, holding a plate of her donut-flavoured muffins. She was dressed in a simple white tracksuit that probably cost more than Barry’s van. “We’re taking you to the hospital, Barry. It’s for your own good.”
[Menu]
“The hospital?” Barry’s face paled beneath its weathered tan. “I ain’t sick. I told you, it’s just… it’s just the…” He trailed off, unable to say the words.
“The funnel,” Cath said softly, turning from the window. She was dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit, her hair pulled back in an elegant chignon, every inch the movie star. “Barry, we know. And we want to help.”
Barry’s eyes darted between the three women—the Welsh icon, the pop art installation, and the Barbadian billionaire—and he seemed to realize, perhaps for the first time, that his life had taken a turn into the deeply surreal. “You want to help me with my… with my…”
“Funnel envy,” Gaga supplied helpfully. The cockatoo screeched in agreement.
Barry winced. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I said that. It just came out. I was embarrassed and you were talking about the east wing and I just—”
“Barry,” Rihanna interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ve got a car downstairs. A very nice car. It has heated seats and everything. Just come with us. No one’s going to judge you.”
“I’m judging him a little,” Gaga whispered to Cath, but it was the kind of whisper that everyone heard.
“No you’re not,” Cath whispered back. “You’re wearing a building.”
The car was, indeed, very nice—a black Mercedes van with tinted windows that glided through the streets of Milsons Point like a shark through calm waters. Barry sat in the back, sandwiched between Gaga (whose sailcloth dress crinkled ominously with every bump) and Rihanna (who had brought the muffins along, “for moral support”). Cath sat up front with the driver, occasionally glancing back at their captive guest with a mixture of guilt and determination.
“I don’t like this,” Barry said. “I don’t like hospitals. My mate Dave went to a hospital once. Came out with a different knee. Not his knee. A different knee entirely.”
“That’s not how hospitals work,” Rihanna said.
“That’s what they told Dave.”
The hospital was a sleek, private facility in Darlinghurst, all glass and calming colours and receptionists who didn’t bat an eye when three international superstars walked through the doors with a bewildered plumber in tow. Money, it turned out, did buy discretion. And also a private consultation room with a view of the city skyline.
Dr. Patricia Nguyen was a small, precise woman with kind eyes and the unflappable demeanour of someone who had seen everything. She looked at Barry, then at the three celebrities arranged around him like a bizarre honour guard, and simply said, “I see.”
“He’s here for…” Cath began, then paused, realizing she didn’t actually know how to phrase it.
“For funnel envy,” Gaga said, with the confidence of someone stating a medical diagnosis. The cockatoo had been left in the van with strict instructions to behave, but Gaga had replaced it with a small, jewelled spider brooch that seemed to watch Barry with its tiny ruby eyes.
Dr. Nguyen’s pen paused over her clipboard. “I’m sorry?”
“E.D.,” Barry muttered, staring at his boots. “Erectile dysfunction. That’s what it is. That’s what I got. Funnel envy was just… I don’t know why I said that.”
Dr. Nguyen nodded slowly, her expression professionally neutral. “I see. And these three women are…?”
“Friends,” Rihanna said.
“Concerned citizens,” Gaga added.
“I hired him to fix my faucet,” Cath said, “and then I made everything worse.”
Barry looked up at her, surprised. “You didn’t make it worse, Ms. Zeta-Jones. You just… you didn’t understand.”
“Because you said ‘waterworks’ and ‘funnel envy’!” Cath exclaimed. “How was I supposed to understand?”
“I panicked!”
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Nguyen interrupted, her voice calm but firm. “And ladies. Let’s focus. Mr. Barry, I’d like to ask you some questions. Privately, if you don’t mind.”
Barry’s eyes widened with alarm. “They can’t stay?”
“Patient confidentiality—”
“No, I mean…” Barry swallowed hard. “I mean, can they stay? I know it’s weird. I know this whole thing is weird. But they came all this way. And they brought muffins.” He gestured at Rihanna’s plate, which she had somehow smuggled into the consultation room. “And I feel like if they leave, I’ll just… I’ll just run. And I don’t want to run. I want to fix this. I want to be… I want to be a working funnel again.”
Gaga placed a hand on his arm, her sailcloth dress rustling sympathetically. “That’s beautiful, Barry.”
“It’s the muffins,” Rihanna said. “They’re very inspiring.”
Dr. Nguyen looked at each of them in turn—the movie star, the pop icon, the billionaire, and the plumber—and made a decision. “Very well. But you’ll have to be quiet. And no…” she paused, searching for the right words, “…no interpretive dance.”
Gaga nodded solemnly, though her fingers twitched with suppressed choreographic urges.
The interview began. Dr. Nguyen asked questions—medical history, lifestyle factors, stress levels, relationship status. Barry answered them with the halting honesty of a man who had spent years hiding this particular struggle. Cath found herself holding her breath. Rihanna clutched her muffin plate like a talisman. Gaga’s spider brooch seemed to lean forward, listening.
“I just want to feel like myself again,” Barry said, his voice cracking. “I want to feel like… like I can fix things. Not just pipes. Not just other people’s problems. I want to feel like I’m not… broken.”
Cath’s eyes filled with tears. “Barry…”
“I know I’m just a plumber,” he continued, “and you’re all… you’re all you. But for one moment, when I was fixing your faucet, I felt useful. I felt like I mattered. And then I had to go and ruin it with my… my funnel.”
Dr. Nguyen set down her clipboard. “Mr. Barry, what you’re experiencing is extremely common. It’s not a reflection of your worth as a man, a plumber, or a human being. There are treatments. There are options. And there is absolutely no shame in any of it.”
Barry looked at her, then at the three women who had orchestrated this intervention. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Dr. Nguyen said.
“Also,” Rihanna added, “I’m going to give you one of these muffins. Not to eat. Just to look at. It helps. Trust me.”
Barry accepted the muffin with trembling hands. He held it up to the light, examining its perfect golden dome, its shimmering pink glaze, its tiny rainbow sprinkles. And for the first time since he’d stepped into Catherine Zeta-Jones’s apartment, he smiled.
“It is a beautiful muffin,” he said.
“It’s a perfect circle of potential,” Rihanna replied. “Just like you, Barry. Just like you.”
Gaga began to hum something soft and strange—possibly a new song, possibly an aria, possibly just the sound of her sailcloth dress catching the breeze. Cath reached out and squeezed Barry’s hand. And Dr. Nguyen, professional as ever, made a note on her clipboard and quietly scheduled a follow-up appointment.
Outside the window, the Sydney skyline glittered in the afternoon sun. Somewhere in the distance, a kookaburra laughed. And in the consultation room, four people—three megastars and one plumber—sat together, holding muffins, and began the long, strange process of healing.
“Same time next week?” Dr. Nguyen asked.
Barry nodded. “Same time next week.”
“We’ll be here,” Cath said.
“With muffins,” Rihanna confirmed.
“And birds,” Gaga added, and no one argued, because they all knew it was true.