The Hollywood Hills sun, a relentless, golden tyrant, had absolutely no business being in Sydney, and yet, there it was—or rather, its southern hemisphere equivalent, a blazing antipodean orb that bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Catherine Zeta-Jones’s palatial Milsons Point apartment. It illuminated dust motes dancing like tiny, carefree ballerinas, a stark contrast to the scene unfolding below. Cath, a vision in a silk caftan the colour of a bruised plum, was not dancing. She was sobbing. Not the delicate, practiced tears of a movie star, but the ugly, gulping, snotty kind that turns a face blotchy and raw.
Beyond the glass, the iconic, slightly terrifying face of Luna Park grinned its enormous, painted grin, the old-fashioned funfair a surreal backdrop to Cath’s existential crisis. The Ferris wheel turned slowly, indifferent to her pain, while the wooden roller coaster clattered and screamed in the distance like a mechanical banshee.
“He was… perfect,” she wailed, clutching a cushion embroidered with a koala. “He could fix anything! The leaky faucet in the guest bath, the rattling in the Aga, the thingy on the whatsit! He was a god with a wrench!”
Lady Gaga, perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, nodded sympathetically. A small, iridescent kingfisher clung to the elaborate nest of her platinum hair, its tiny head twitching. A kookaburra, incongruous and magnificent, sat on the armrest, its laugh silenced for the moment. Gaga was wearing a dress constructed entirely of what appeared to be woven eucalyptus leaves and the molted feathers of various Australian parrots. She looked like a walking, breathing aviary, a testament to high-fashion ornithology. A small sign on her headpiece read “MADE IN AUSTRALIA” in glittering letters.
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“Men are a puzzle, Cath,” Gaga said, her voice a low, melodic hum. “They present a facade, a… a structural integrity. But underneath, the pipes are often… corroded.”
“He said he had… problems!” Cath managed between sobs. “He said, ‘Ms. Zeta-Jones, I have to be honest, I’ve got… waterworks issues.’ I thought he meant the house! I said, ‘Oh, thank god, the pressure’s been dreadful in the east wing!’ I tipped him an extra two hundred dollars! I practically threw money at him for having a faulty boiler!”
Rihanna, draped over a velvet armchair like a panther in a casual chic tracksuit, slid a plate onto the coffee table. On it sat a half-dozen muffins, perfect, golden-brown domes, each glazed with a shimmering pink icing and topped with tiny, multi-coloured sprinkles.
“Girl, you need a donut-flavoured muffin,” Rihanna said, her voice smooth as honey. “They fix everything.”
Cath sniffled, eyeing the plate with suspicion. “They sound fattening.”
“Only if you eat them,” Rihanna replied, not missing a beat. She picked one up, not to eat, but to admire, holding it to the light. “I brought them just to look at them. It always cheers me up. See? It’s a perfect little circle of potential. No calories in potential.”
Outside, Luna Park’s famous laughing face seemed to be laughing directly at Cath. The giant, painted mouth, frozen in eternal mirth, was a personal affront.
Gaga leaned forward, a small, bright green parrot shifting its grip on her shoulder. “Tell us again, darling. What did he say? The… the phrase?”
Cath took a shuddering breath. The memory was a fresh wound. “He was standing there, this mountain of a man, hands the size of dinner plates, looking so… so ashamed. And he says, ‘It’s not the house, Ms. Zeta-Jones. It’s me. I’ve got… E.D.’ And then he whispers, like it’s a state secret, ‘Funnel Envy.’”
A fresh wave of grief washed over her. “Funnel Envy!” she cried out, the words a curse. “Whoever put the word ‘fun’ in ‘funnel’ is literally worse than the devil and Lucille Ball put together! It’s a linguistic betrayal of the highest order! The devil tempts you with sin, Lucille Ball tempts you with chocolate and comedy, but ‘funnel’? It promises amusement and delivers only… only plumbing-based despair!”
Rihanna nodded slowly, examining a sprinkle on her muffin. “That’s deep. That’s, like, a TED Talk on etymology and male fragility.”
“He was trying to tell me his… his man-pipes were blocked!” Cath continued, her voice rising to a dramatic crescendo. “And I was prattling on about the water pressure in the east wing! The east wing, Gaga! I have a whole wing for the east! And I was worried about its pressure! He was talking about his… his main line! His… his structural integrity!”
Below them, a ferry horn blared across the harbour, a mournful sound that seemed to underscore her anguish. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, that great steel coat hanger, arched in the distance, connecting nothing to nothing, or so it felt.
Gaga rose, her feathered ensemble rustling like a flock taking flight. She placed a comforting hand, adorned with a ring shaped like a tiny, jewelled platypus, on Cath’s shoulder. “Catherine, listen to me. This is not your fault. You were operating under a false linguistic paradigm. He presented a domestic metaphor for a personal crisis. It’s a classic breakdown in communication, a… a short circuit in the emotional wiring.”
“He was so incredible,” Cath moaned, leaning into Gaga’s feathery comfort. “He could have fixed anything. Anything! But he couldn’t fix… the funnel.”
“Maybe it’s not about fixing, Cath,” Rihanna said, finally setting the muffin down. “Maybe it’s about… understanding. He was vulnerable. He told you his secret. Okay, he told it to you in a really confusing, plumbing-centric way, but still. It was a moment.”
“A moment of utter humiliation for us both!” Cath cried. “I offered to call a different plumber! I said, ‘Don’t you worry, I know a specialist who handles tricky water features!’ I thought I was being so helpful!”
Gaga’s kookaburra let out a sudden, loud “Koo-koo-koo-koo-koo-ha-ha-ha!” as if it couldn’t contain its amusement any longer. The bird’s laugh echoed across the harbour, mingling with the distant screams from the roller coaster.
“See?” Rihanna said, pointing at the bird. “Even the wildlife finds it funny.”
“It’s not funny!” Cath insisted, but a tiny, reluctant smile was fighting its way through her tears. “It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. A great man, brought low by his own… funnel.”
Gaga began to sway gently, a soothing, avant-garde lullaby. “Just dance, Cath. It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. We’ll find you a new plumber. One who communicates solely through interpretive dance. Or perhaps mime.”
“Or one who just has normal problems,” Rihanna suggested. “Like a gambling addiction. Or a secret family. Something classic.”
Cath looked at her two friends: the glorious, bizarre spectacle of Gaga, a woman who wore entire ecosystems as a fashion statement, and Rihanna, who brought muffins for aesthetic appreciation rather than consumption. Her world was absurd, beautiful, and deeply, deeply strange.
She looked out the window at Luna Park, its painted grin now seeming less like mockery and more like an old, demented friend. She looked at the muffin on the table, a perfect, inedible symbol of a problem-free existence. She looked at the kookaburra, which was now trying to nibble Gaga’s eucalyptus-leaf hem.
And for the first time since she’d learned the true, devastating meaning of ‘Funnel Envy,’ Catherine Zeta-Jones let out a small, watery laugh. It wasn’t a solution. The plumber’s funnel was still, presumably, envious. But surrounded by donut muffins and Australian birds and the unwavering, if unconventional, support of her friends, the pressure in her own emotional east wing began, just slightly, to ease.
The ferry horn sounded again, and somewhere in the distance, a kookaburra laughed. Or maybe it was Gaga. Or maybe, just maybe, it was Cath herself.