The champagne had gone flat. The exhaustion had deepened into something more intimate, the kind of post-show delirium where inhibitions dissolve and tongues loosen. Lady Gaga and Catherine Zeta-Jones had relocated to a smaller sitting room adjacent to the main green room, a cozy nook with a fireplace that crackled softly and windows overlooking the glittering harbour.
Gaga had changed into something more comfortable—a silk robe embroidered with tiny sequined stars—and was now curled into an armchair like a contented cat. Catherine had kicked off her heels and was lounging on a settee, her emerald gown pooling around her like moss on a river stone.
“Okay,” Gaga said, swirling the remnants of her champagne. “Let’s talk about what just happened.”
“Rihanna,” Catherine said, nodding sagely. “The fern incident.”
“The fern incident,” Gaga repeated, pointing at Catherine with her glass. “Did you see it? Did you see how she just materialized? One moment, nothing. The next moment, she’s standing behind a plant like some kind of fabulous garden gnome. And she was there for four minutes, Catherine. Four minutes. I went on a whole monologue about Taylor’s rental cat and her underground plumbing empire, and Rihanna was just… there. Absorbing it. Like a photosynthesis queen.”
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Catherine laughed, a low, throaty sound. “She does have a tendency to appear from foliage. I’ve noticed it before. At the Met Gala, she emerged from behind a topiary elephant. Just appeared. No warning. No footsteps. Just… poof. Rihanna, behind a shrub.”
“At the Oscars after-party,” Gaga said, sitting up straighter, “I saw her glide out from behind a palm. A palm, Catherine. Those things have no business hiding a grown woman in a fifteen-foot train, and yet—”
“Yet she did it.”
“Yet she did it.” Gaga set down her glass and leaned forward, her eyes wide with conspiratorial glee. “What is she doing back there? Is she composing herself? Is she taking a nap? Does she have a little stool and a book? Is she just… waiting? For what? The perfect moment to ambush someone with bird-related truth bombs?”
Catherine considered this. “She does always have birds with her now. The rosella and the king-parrot. They’re like her feathery enforcers.”
“The birds,” Gaga said, clutching her chest dramatically. “Don’t even get me started on the birds. They judge. That king-parrot—Gerald, she called him—he looked at me like I had personally insulted his ancestors. And the rosella, Penelope, she laughed at me. A bird laughed at me, Catherine. I’ve been booed in stadiums. I’ve been panned by critics. But a bird laughing at me? That’s a new level of humiliation.”
“To be fair,” Catherine said, “you were claiming Taylor Swift was a plumber.”
“That’s not the point,” Gaga said, waving her hand. “The point is, Rihanna is clearly using plants as some kind of strategic positioning. She’s got a problem. A fern dependency. A shrub obsession. I think she’s addicted to photosynthesis.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how photosynthesis works.”
“I’m an artist, Catherine. I deal in metaphors.” Gaga paused, her expression shifting to one of deep contemplation. “But seriously. Think about it. Every major event, every significant moment—there she is. Behind a plant. Waiting. Watching. It’s like she’s a spy, but her cover is horticulture.”
“You’ve clearly thought about this before,” Catherine observed, amused.
“I’ve had time,” Gaga said. “Long flights. Tour buses. I do my best thinking in transit. And I’ve compiled a list of known Rihanna-plant incidents. There are forty-seven documented cases since 2018. I have a spreadsheet.”
Catherine’s composure finally cracked. She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her water. “You have a spreadsheet? Of Rihanna’s plant-based appearances?”
“Color-coded,” Gaga said proudly. “Green for potted plants. Brown for trees. Yellow for things that might be a plant but might also be a very large hat. I’m thorough.”
“And what does this spreadsheet tell you?”
Gaga leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “It tells me that Rihanna has never been photographed in a room without some form of foliage nearby. She’s like a cartoon character who always has a convenient bush to hide behind. It’s pathological. I think she’s using plants as emotional support.”
“Or,” Catherine said, “she just likes plants.”
“Don’t be naive, Catherine. There’s something deeper here. Something she’s not telling us. Why does she need to be behind a fern at all times? What is she hiding from? What is she preparing for?” Gaga clutched her robe dramatically. “Is there a threat we don’t know about? Is she being hunted?”
“By whom?”
“By something,” Gaga said vaguely. “I don’t know. Maybe the birds are protecting her. Maybe the birds are her bodyguards. Did you notice how the rosella looked at me? That wasn’t just judgment. That was surveillance. She’s monitoring me. They’re all monitoring me.”
Catherine shook her head, still chuckling. “You have a feverish imagination.”
“I have a truth-seeking mind,” Gaga corrected. “And the truth is, Rihanna has a plant problem, and someone needs to stage an intervention. We can’t just let her keep hiding behind ficus trees and wandering around with judgmental parrots on her shoulders. It’s not healthy.”
“Maybe she just likes the aesthetic,” Catherine offered. “Plants are very stylish. Very Earth-mother chic.”
“Exactly,” Gaga said, pointing at her triumphantly. “It’s a cover. She wants us to think she’s just being fashionable, but really, she’s assembling an army of flora. One day, she’s going to reveal her true power, and it’s going to involve hundreds of strategically placed houseplants.”
Catherine opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.
“You know,” Rihanna said, stepping into view, “I can hear every word you’re saying.”
She was standing behind a large monstera plant that had definitely not been there an hour ago.
Gaga screamed.
Catherine screamed.
The rosella, Penelope, let out a triumphant trill.
The king-parrot, Gerald, nodded slowly, as if to say, We’re always watching.
“That’s a new plant,” Gaga said, pointing a trembling finger. “That was not here before. You brought a plant. You brought a plant specifically to hide behind and eavesdrop.”
Rihanna stepped out from behind the monstera, adjusting her disco-ball gown with practiced ease. “I like plants. They’re excellent listeners. They never interrupt, they never judge, and they always know when someone is talking smack about me.”
“How long have you been standing there?” Gaga demanded.
Rihanna smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. “Long enough. You were saying something about an intervention? Something about a spreadsheet?”
Gaga turned to Catherine, her eyes wide with panic. “We’re going to die.”
“No one’s going to die,” Rihanna said smoothly, gliding into the room. The birds on her shoulders preened majestically. “But we are going to talk about your plant paranoia. Have a seat, Gaga. It’s time for a little chat.”
Gaga sat.
Catherine poured herself more water.
The fire crackled.
And somewhere in the corner, behind a very suspicious-looking fern, something rustled.
“I’m not moving,” Gaga said quickly. “I’m not looking. I’m not acknowledging it.”
But she looked.
And there, in the shadows behind the fern, was a small folded stool and a copy of Vogue.
Rihanna followed her gaze and sighed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”