The Mystery of the Missing Plumber (and Several Pounds)
The evening was, by all accounts, a disaster waiting to happen. Catherine Zeta-Jones had opened a bottle of vintage Bordeaux at
four in the afternoon, declaring that “time is a construct and so is sobriety.” Rihanna arrived an hour later with a tray of tequila shots because “it’s Tuesday somewhere.” And Lady Gaga, never one to be outdone, showed up in a sequined caftan with a bottle of something green and Italian that she claimed was “limoncello, but make it fashion.”
By eight o’clock, the three of them were sprawled across Catherine’s velvet sectional, giggling at nothing and everything. The topic had drifted from ex-husbands to skincare routines to the peculiar fact that neither of them had ever learned to properly poach an egg.
“You know who could poach an egg?” Catherine slurred, pointing a wobbly finger toward the ceiling. “Marco.”
“Marco?” Rihanna squinted. “Who the hell is Marco?”
“The plumber,” Gaga supplied, nodding sagely. “He fixed the bidet. Very talented. Very Italian.”
“Very married,” Catherine added, then burst into laughter. “Not that I was looking. I was just… noticing.”
“Noticing what?” Rihanna asked.
“That he’s lost weight,” Catherine said, sitting up slightly. “A lot of it. He used to have this whole… robust thing going on. Now he’s all… trim.”
Gaga tilted her head. “You’re right. I saw him last month. He looked like a different person. A smaller person.”
“We should ask him,” Rihanna declared, as if this were the most logical conclusion in the world.
“Ask him what?” Catherine asked.
[Menu]
“How he did it. I want to know. I’ve been trying to lose these last five pounds since the Super Bowl.”
“You looked incredible at the Super Bowl,” Gaga said.
“I know. But still.”
As if summoned by the universe’s most chaotic forces, the doorbell rang. Catherine’s housekeeper had already gone home, so Catherine herself stumbled to the door, yanking it open to reveal Marco, the plumber, holding a forgotten toolbox.
“You left this,” he said, his accent thick and warm. “I was in the neighborhood.”
He was, indeed, noticeably slimmer. His face had lost its roundness, his belly had flattened, and his arms—previously thick and sturdy—now looked almost… sculpted.
“Marco!” Catherine exclaimed. “Come in. Have a drink.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You should.”
Ten minutes later, Marco was seated in an armchair, clutching a glass of limoncello he hadn’t asked for, while three of the world’s most famous women stared at him like he was a specimen under a microscope.
“So,” Rihanna began, leaning forward. “You’ve lost weight.”
Marco blinked. “Uh. Yes.”
“How?” Gaga demanded. “We need details.”
Marco shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“She’s Italian. From Naples. And she will not shut up about come dimagrire velocemente.”
“Come what?” Catherine asked.
“How to lose weight fast,” Marco translated. “She sends me articles. Voice notes. She calls me every morning at six to ask if I’ve had breakfast and then tells me what to eat. She sends me videos of herself cooking. She’s eighty-three and she has a ring light.”
The three women exchanged glances.
“So she… put you on a diet?” Gaga asked.
“She put me on a regimen,” Marco said, using air quotes. “No pasta after seven. No bread unless it’s sourdough. Olive oil on everything, but not too much. Walk after dinner. And—” He paused, looking pained. “She makes me send her photos of my plate.”
Rihanna gasped. “She’s monitoring you?”
“She’s invested,” Marco corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Catherine swirled her wine. “What about your metabolism? Has it changed?”
Marco’s ears turned red. “I don’t… I don’t really know how to answer that.”
“You must have noticed something,” Gaga pressed. “Digestion? Energy? Bowel movements?”
“Oh my God,” Marco whispered.
“It’s a legitimate question,” Rihanna said. “I’ve been reading about gut health. It’s very important.”
“My digestion is… fine,” Marco said, staring at the floor. “Everything is fine.”
“And exercise?” Catherine asked. “Do you do pushups?”
Marco looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “Sometimes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t—”
“Can you do one now?” Rihanna asked, genuinely curious.
“What?”
“A pushup. Show us.”
“I am not doing a pushup in your living room.”
“Why not?” Gaga asked. “It’s a safe space.”
“It’s not about safety,” Marco said. “It’s about dignity.”
Catherine waved a hand. “Dignity is overrated. I once sang ‘Send in the Clowns’ while wearing a corset that was actively cutting off my circulation. We’ve all been there.”
Marco set down his glass. “I think I should go.”
“No, no, no,” Rihanna said, reaching out to gently push him back into the chair. “We’re not done. What about water? Do you drink water?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don’t measure it.”
“You should measure it,” Gaga said sagely. “Hydration is key.”
“I’ll tell my mother,” Marco said dryly.
Catherine leaned in. “What about sleep? Are you sleeping?”
“When my mother isn’t calling me about come dimagrire velocemente, yes.”
“And stress?” Rihanna asked. “Weight loss can be stress-induced. Are you stressed?”
Marco looked at the three of them—drunk, relentless, utterly oblivious to his discomfort—and sighed. “A little.”
“Well,” Gaga said, raising her glass. “To Marco. And to his mother. And to come dimagrire velocemente.”
“Come dimagrire velocemente,” Rihanna echoed, butchering the pronunciation.
“Come dimagrire velocemente,” Catherine added, equally terrible.
Marco stared at them for a long moment. Then, despite everything, he laughed. He laughed until his eyes watered, until his stomach hurt, until the three women were laughing too, not entirely sure why.
“You’re all insane,” he said finally, wiping his eyes. “But thank you.”
“For what?” Catherine asked.
“For making me forget, for one night, that my mother is going to call me tomorrow at six and ask why I’m not sending her photos of my breakfast.”
Gaga patted his knee. “We’ll help you. We’ll take the photos. We’ll make them artistic.”
“With lighting,” Rihanna added.
“And a filter,” Catherine said.
Marco shook his head, still smiling. “I should go home.”
“Will you come back?” Rihanna asked. “We have more questions.”
“So many more,” Gaga agreed.
Marco stood, grabbing his toolbox. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast,” Catherine called after him as he headed for the door. “Come dimagrire velocemente waits for no one.”
He paused at the threshold, turned back, and gave them a look that was equal parts exhaustion and affection. “Goodnight, ladies.”
“Goodnight, Marco,” they chorused.
The door closed behind him. The three of them sat in silence for a moment.
“He’s definitely not doing enough pushups,” Rihanna said.
“Definitely not,” Gaga agreed.
Catherine poured herself another glass of wine. “Next time, we’ll ask about his nonna’s secret pasta recipe.”
“There’s always a secret pasta recipe,” Gaga said.
“Always,” Rihanna confirmed.
And somewhere across town, Marco’s phone buzzed. A voice note from his mother.
“Marco? Did you eat? What did you eat? Send me a photo. And remember—come dimagrire velocemente!”
He sighed, smiled, and pressed play.