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LIPSTICK JUNGLE by Candace Bushnell
On sale: August 8, 2006
Paperback
368 pages
ISBN: 0786887079
The new novel that fans of the bestselling author of SEX AND THE CITY have been waiting for, about three sexy, powerful career women who will do anything to stay at the top of their fields
Victory Ford is the darling of the fashion world. Single, attractive, and iconoclastic, she has worked for years to create her own signature line. As Victory struggles to keep her company afloat, she learns crucial lessons about what she really wants in a relationship.
Nico O'Neilly is the glamorous, brilliant editor of Bonfire Magazine -- the pop-culture bible for fashion, show business, and politics. Considered one of the most powerful women in publishing, she seems to have it all. But in a mid-life crisis, she suddenly realizes this isn't enough.
Wendy Healy's chutzpah has propelled her to the very top of the cut-throat movie industry. When it becomes clear that a competitor is trying to oust her, something has to give -- and Wendy must decide between her career and her marriage.
In Lipstick Jungle, Bushnell once again delivers an addictive page-turner of sex and scandal that will keep readers enthralled and guessing to the very last page.
"The real satisfaction here is the book's surprisingly thoughtful pop feminism, at once sharp and sweet."
-New York magazine
Candace Bushnell is the author of the international bestsellers Sex and the City, Four Blondes, and Trading Up. She is a popular college lecturer, has been featured in numerous publications and television shows, and is a contributing editor to Harper's Bazaar. She lives in New York City.
Candace Bushnell's sexy female friends are still having sex in the city, just not as often since they are prowling the lipstick jungle of New York's most competitive and high profile industries --- fashion, publishing, filmmaking --- to secure the corner offices, multi-million dollar salaries and billboard recognition. The three friends --- Nico, Victory and Wendy --- are linked by their ambitions and their belief in one another.
The days of see-and-be-seen lunches at "café society" hot spots like "Michael's" or three martini meetings at "21" in Manhattan have become the domain of forty-something women who have moved out of the bedroom and into the boardroom. Bushnell's message to her mass audience of women in "Sex and the City" was to embrace and enjoy sexuality with confidence. LIPSTICK JUNGLE heralds career aspirations, hard work, success, and power as the secrets to attracting the opposite sex. "It's a jungle out there," a jungle of women with naked ambition and sheer attitude.
Although LIPSTICK JUNGLE is more about longer relationships with men than one-night stands and role reversal is predominant, there is a "giddy with excitement" and a "die from anticipation" sexual tension that is tempting to those who loved Samantha's ("Sex and the City") older woman-younger man relationship.
"Every woman knows that you have to combine at least two men to make one decent one" --- maybe not. I will never forget an article in the August 2004 issue of Town and Country written by David Brown, husband of Helen Gurley Brown --- icon of the feminist movement, author of the groundbreaking international bestseller SEX AND THE SINGLE GIRL and founding editor of Cosmopolitan. Mr. Brown lovingly stated, "I'm never jealous of my celebrity wife. I've never felt less of a man because she was more of a woman."
Red is a symbol of passion, lust, power, heat, confidence and sex appeal. Fittingly, "golden-reddish" haired Nico O'Neilly is editor-in-chief of Bonfire Magazine (I loved the connotation here) and is obsessed with being the first female CEO of the Splatch-Verner publishing division. Her timing and tactics are masterful. Feeling like nothing is new in her life, Nico takes a "hot male model who was eager to trade in his underwear for boy-toy status." Meanwhile, at home Nico's husband of 14 years, Seymour, is happy to teach one class at Columbia University, plan dinner parties and coach her on The Art of War in the office.
Victory Ford's rise to billboard recognition begins with the dazzling annual fashion week in New York and a less than victorious show. When the media and her peers reject her line, Victory rebounds with naked ambition and develops partnerships that result in her own couture line. Satisfied with her single and childless status, Victory treads cautiously with adoring billionaire boyfriend Lyne Bennett, who indulges Victory with his wealth, private jet and spur-of-the-moment trips, but acts as if he owns her. Victory wants to make billions in her own way and buy her own jet.
Wendy Healy is a distraught wife trying to keep her stay-at-home husband's extravagant spending and her three young children under control, but as President of Parador Pictures she is wildly successful and garners the Oscars to prove it. Unhappy with the role reversal, Wendy's ego-driven husband Shane demands a divorce and custody of the kids because of Wendy's hectic schedule. Wendy is in her forties, rich and successful and unthreatened by the male ego.
Candace Bushnell is one female who has successfully secured a place for herself in the lipstick jungle. The six-foot banner in the window of Borders Books announcing the release of LIPSTICK JUNGLE, a 20-city author tour and national television publicity affirms that she is the reigning tigress of the lipstick jungle. In fact, if I were to name a lipstick after Bushnell, I would call it "Manhattan Tigress." Publicity of this magnitude and expense is reserved for A-list authors whose next book is eagerly awaited by a mass audience.
>From the runways of New York and Paris, the excitement of the Cannes Film Festival on the French Riviera, the sleek Manhattan boardrooms, and the New York Times bestseller list, Victory, Wendy, Nico and Candace are "staying in the game" and toasting with Dom Perignon as tigresses in the lipstick jungle.
--- Reviewed by Hillary Wagy
 Click here now to buy this book from Amazon.com.
1
September is glorious in Manhattan, and this year was no exception.
The temperature was a perfect seventy-five degrees, the humidity low,
and the sky a cloudless blue. Coming back to the city from a restless
summer, the weather is always a reminder that spectacular things can
happen and that greatness is just around the corner. The air buzzes
with excitement, and in one day, the city goes from sleepy to frenzied.
There's the familiar crawl of traffic on Sixth and Park Avenues, the
air hums with cell phone conversations, and the restaurants are full.
For the rest of the country, Labor Day marks the end of the summer
and the beginning of the school year. But in New York, the real year
begins a few days later, with that venerable tradition known as Fashion
Week.
On Sixth Avenue behind the Public Library, Bryant Park was transformed
into a wonderland of white tents where dozens of fashion shows would
take place. Black carpeted steps led up to French doors, and all week,
these steps were lined with students and fans hoping to get a glimpse
of their favorite designers or stars, with Japanese photographers
(whom everyone agreed were more polite), with paparazzi, with security
men with headsets and walkie-talkies, with the young P.R. girls (always
in black, sporting concerned expressions), and with all manner of
well-heeled attendees shouting into cell phones for their cars. The
curb was lined with black town cars three vehicles deep, as if some
terribly important state funeral were about to take place. But inside
the tents, life was at its most glamorous and exciting.
There were always five or six big shows at which attendance was required
to secure one's place in the social pecking order (or to simply remind
everyone that you still exist), and the very first of these events
was the Victory Ford show, held at seven p.m. on the first Thursday
evening of Fashion Week. By six forty-five, the scene inside the tents
was one of controlled pandemonium—there were six camera crews,
a hundred or so photographers, and a throng of fashionistas, socialites,
buyers, and lesser stars, eagerly awaiting the show with the anticipation
of an opening night crowd. A young socialite who was cradling a small
dachshund in her arms was hit in the back of the head by a video camera;
someone else's Jimmy Choo slingback was trod on by one of the P.R.
girls who nearly ran her over in order to get to someone more important.
Those hoping to get a glimpse of a famous movie star were thwarted,
however, because movie stars (and important political people, like
the mayor) never went in the front entrance. They were escorted by
security to a secret side entrance that led to the backstage area.
And in this world, where life is a series of increasingly smaller
circles of exclusivity (or Dante's circles of hell, depending on how
you look at it), hanging out backstage before the show began was the
only place to be.
In the back corner of this area, hidden behind a rack of clothing,
stood Victory Ford herself, surreptitiously smoking a cigarette. Victory
had quit smoking years ago, but the cigarette was an excuse to have
a moment to herself. For three minutes, everyone would leave her alone,
giving her a few seconds to focus and prepare for the next sixty minutes,
in which she had to attend to the last-minute details of the show,
schmooze with her celebrity clients, and give several interviews to
the print and television press. She frowned, taking a drag on the
cigarette, wanting to savor this one moment of peace. She'd been working
eighteen-hour days in the four weeks before the show, and yet, this
next crucial hour would pass in what felt like a second. She dropped
the cigarette butt into a half-empty glass of champagne.
She looked at her watch—an elegant stainless-steel Baume &
Mercier with a row of tiny diamonds along the face—and took
a deep breath. It was six-fifty. By eight p.m., when the last model
had completed her turn on the runway and Victory went out to take
her bow, she would know her fate for the coming year. She would be
either on top of the game; in the middle and surviving; or on the
bottom, trying to regain her position. She knew she was taking a risk
with this show, and she also knew she hadn't had to. Any other designer
would have continued along the same lines that had made them so successful
for the past three years, but Victory couldn't do that. It was too
easy. Tonight she hoped to show the industry a new side to her talents,
a new way to look at how women might dress. She was, she thought wryly,
either a hero or a fool.
She stepped out from behind the rack of clothing, and was immediately
accosted by three of her acolytes, bright young women in their twenties
who worked almost as tirelessly as she did. They were wearing clothing
from the new collection, held clipboards and headsets, and had panic-stricken
expressions.
Victory smiled calmly. "Lila," she said, addressing one
of the girls, "are the drummers in place?"
"Yes, and Bonnie Beecheck, the gossip columnist, is freaking
out—she says she has ear trouble and we have to move her seat."
Victory nodded. Bonnie Beecheck was about a million years old and
was like one of the evil witches in a Grimm's fairy tale—no
one liked her, but not to invite her would guarantee bad press for
the rest of the year. "Switch her seat with Mauve Binchely. Mauve's
so desperate to be seen she won't mind where she sits. But do it quickly,
before anyone notices."
Lila nodded and ran off, while the two remaining young women vied
for her attention. " 'Extra' wants to do an interview . . ."
"Keith Richards is coming and we don't have a seat . . ."
"And four pairs of shoes are missing . . ."
Victory took care of these problems with dispatch. " 'Extra'
gets two minutes, escort Keith backstage and keep him here until the
last minute. The shoes are in a box under the makeup table."
Composing her face, she approached the "Extra" camera crew,
who were standing in the middle of a swirl of well-wishers, all of
whom wanted to say hello. She moved through the crowd with graceful
expertise, feeling as if she were floating above her body, stopping
to kiss a cheek here, engaging in a few seconds of brief repartee
there, and shaking the hand of someone's solemn and awestruck ten-year-old
daughter, whose mother claimed she was already a huge fan.
I hope she's still a fan after the show, Victory thought sardonically,
allowing herself a brief moment of insecurity.
In the next second, however, the "Extra" crew was on top
of her, and a young woman with frizzy red hair was shoving a microphone
in her face. Victory looked at the girl's expression and braced herself.
Six years of doing interviews had taught her to read an interviewer
instantly as friend or foe, and while most of the entertainment press
were as charming and gracious as the most seasoned celebrity, every
now and then you got a bad apple. Victory could tell by the girl's
forced, disdainful smile that she had an ax to grind. Sometimes the
reason was simply a case of having just been dumped by a boyfriend,
but often it ran deeper: A general feeling of being pissed off at
the world because it wasn't as easy to get ahead in New York as one
had been led to believe.
"Victory," the young woman said assertively, adding, "you
don't mind if I call you Victory, do you?" The deliberately cultured
accent told Victory the girl probably considered herself above fashion.
"You're forty-two years old . . ."
"Forty-three," Victory said, correcting her. "I still
have birthdays." She was right—beginning an interview with
the age question was an act of open hostility.
"And you're not married and you don't have children. Is it really
worth giving up marriage and children for your career?"
Victory laughed. Why was it that no matter what a woman accomplished
in the world, if she hadn't married and had children, she was still
considered a failure? The girl's question was completely inappropriate,
given the circumstances, and profoundly disrespectful, for what could
this girl know about the vagaries of life and how she'd struggled
and made all kinds of sacrifices to get to this point—an internationally
recognized fashion designer with her own company—an accomplishment
that was probably far greater than what this unpleasant young woman
would ever achieve. But Victory knew better than to lose her temper.
If she did, it would end up on TV and probably in a few of the gossip
columns.
"Every morning when I wake up," Victory began, telling a
story she'd told to interviewers many times before (but still, none
of them seemed to be able to get it), "I look around and I listen.
I'm alone, and I hear . . . silence." The girl gave her a sympathetic
look. "But wait," Victory said, holding up one finger. "I
hear . . . silence. And slowly but surely a happiness spreads through
my body. A joy. And I thank God that somehow, I've managed to remain
free. Free to enjoy my life and my career."
The girl laughed nervously. She tugged on her hair.
"So much of being a woman is telling lies, isn't it?" Victory
asked. "It's telling yourself that you want the things that society
tells you you should want. Women think that survival depends on conformity.
But for some women, conformity is death. It's a death to the soul.
The soul," she said, "is a precious thing. When you live
a lie, you damage the soul."
The girl looked at Victory in surprise, and then, frowning in agreement,
began nodding vigorously as they were suddenly interrupted by one
of Victory's assistants, who was talking excitedly into her headset.
"Jenny Cadine is here. Her ETA is three minutes . . ."
* * *
Wendy Healy pushed her glasses up her nose and stepped out of the
Cadillac Escalade, looking around at the throng of paparazzi, who
were now surrounding the SUV. No matter how many times she'd been
in this situation, it never ceased to amaze her how they always managed
to find the movie star. They could smell stardom like bloodhounds.
Despite all her years in the movie business, she still couldn't understand
how the stars handled the attention, and knew she'd never be able
to (or more importantly, want to) deal with it herself. Of course,
in her position, she didn't have to. She was the president of Parador
Pictures, one of the most powerful women in the movie business, but
to the photographers, she might as well have been someone's assistant.
Wendy turned back to the SUV, unconsciously tugging on her black Armani
jacket. She lived in black Armani separates, and, she suddenly realized,
hadn't actually gone shopping in two years. This was probably inexcusable,
given that one of her best friends was the fashion designer Victory
Ford. She should have dressed up for this event, but she'd come from
her office, and with her job and three children and a husband who
was sometimes a child himself, something had to give, and that was
fashion. And the gym. And healthy eating. But what the hell. A woman
couldn't do everything. The most important thing was that she was
there, and that, as she promised Victory months ago, she'd brought
Jenny Cadine.
The crowd of photographers pushed closer to the SUV, as several security
men stepped forward, trying to hold back the eager horde, which seemed
to be growing larger by the second. Jenny's personal publicist, a
surly-looking young woman who was known by one name only—Domino—emerged
from the SUV. Domino was only twenty-six, but had the kind of don't-mess-with-me
attitude one generally associates with male muscle-heads, accompanied
by the kind of gravelly voice that suggested she ate nails for breakfast.
"They said, 'Get back!' " she barked, staring down the crowd.
And then Jenny Cadine appeared. She was, Wendy thought, even more
jaw-droppingly beautiful in person than she was in photographs, if
such a thing were possible. Photographs always picked up her slightly
asymmetrical features, and the fact that her nose was a bit bulbous
on the tip. But in person, these flaws were erased by an intangible
quality that made it impossible to stop looking at her. It was as
if she possessed her own energy source that caused her to be lit from
within, and it didn't hurt that she was five feet nine inches tall,
with hair the pale, slightly golden reddish color of not-quite-ripe
strawberries.
She smiled at the photographers, while Wendy stood to the side for
a moment, watching her. People outside of the business always wondered
what it was like to know such a creature, and assumed that envy would
make it impossible to be friends. But Wendy had known Jenny for nearly
fifteen years, when they'd both been starting out in the business,
and despite her money and fame, would never have considered trading
places with her. There was something inhuman about Jenny—she
was never excessive or arrogant, nor was she rude or egotistical.
But there was a remove about her, as if she might not possess a soul.
Jenny was one of her stars, and Wendy knew that they were probably
as close as Jenny was to anyone. But they weren't really friends,
like the way she was friends with Victory or Nico O'Neilly.
The security guards managed to create a little space in front of them
so they could walk the short distance to the opening in the side of
the tent. Jenny was wearing a brown pantsuit with slightly flared
trouser legs under a neon jacket that was, Wendy decided, one of the
coolest outfits she'd ever seen. It was from Victory's new collection,
and Wendy knew that Victory had made it especially for Jenny, and
that Jenny had gone to Victory's studio several times for fittings.
But Victory had been so busy in the last three weeks that Wendy hadn't
been able to talk to her about it, or what she thought about Jenny.
Still, she could imagine what Vic would say. Screwing up her face
like a child, she'd say, "You know, Wen, Jenny's a great girl.
But you can't really call her 'nice.' She's probably more calculating
than we are—maybe even more calculating than Nico." And
then they'd laugh, because they always agreed that Nico was possibly
the most calculating woman in town. She was a master, and the brilliant
thing about Nico was that you never saw her machinations. All you
knew was that suddenly you were dead.
It had been Nico's idea to get Jenny Cadine to Victory's fashion show,
which was so obvious Wendy had been slightly embarrassed that she
hadn't thought of it herself. "It's perfect," Nico said,
in that smooth, cool way she had of speaking that made everything
that came out of her mouth sound absolutely right. "Jenny Cadine
is the most important movie star, and Victory is the most important
designer. Besides," she said, "Jenny mostly wears male designers.
I have the feeling she's a feminist underneath all that gloss, especially
after her breakup with Kyle Unger," she added, naming the action-adventure
star who had publicly dumped Jenny on a late-night talk show. "I'd
appeal to her feminist side, although I doubt you'll have to. She
doesn't have great taste in men, but she has excellent taste in clothing."
Naturally, Nico had been right, and Jenny had jumped at the chance
to be dressed by Victory and to attend the fashion show, where her
presence would guarantee Victory even more publicity. And now, watching
as Jenny smoothly made her way through the gauntlet of photographers
(she had a way of acknowledging their presence while appearing completely
natural, as if she wasn't being photographed at all), Wendy hoped
that Jenny's appearance was a sign that Victory's show would be a
success. Although she never would have admitted it to anyone, Wendy
was quite superstitious, and for Victory's sake, was even wearing
her good-luck underpants—an embarrassingly tattered pair of
large white Fruit-of-the-Looms, which she'd happened to be wearing
when one of her movies was nominated for an Oscar for the first time
five years ago.
Jenny entered the tent with Wendy following close behind. Dropping
her hand to the side, Wendy quickly crossed her fingers. She hoped
Victory's show was huge. No one deserved it more.
* * *
Several minutes later, at exactly seven-fifteen, a brand-new black
Town Car with tinted windows pulled up in front of the entrance to
the tents on Sixth Avenue. A driver in a pin-striped suit with slicked-back
dark hair walked around the back of the car and opened the passenger
door.
Nico O'Neilly stepped out. Wearing silver pants with a ruffled shirt,
topped with a golden-reddish mink jacket that was nearly the same
color as her hair, there was no mistaking the fact that Nico O'Neilly
was someone significant. From an early age, Nico had been one of those
people who exude an air of importance that causes other people to
wonder who they are, and at first glance, with her stunning hair and
glamorous clothes, one might take her for a movie star. On closer
inspection, one saw that Nico wasn't technically beautiful. But she
had done the most with what she had, and as confidence and success
create their own kind of beauty in a woman, the general consensus
was that Nico O'Neilly was damn good-looking.
She was also extremely precise. Knowing that Victory's fashion show
wouldn't start until seven-thirty, she had timed her arrival to guarantee
that she wouldn't be late, but would also spend the minimum amount
of time waiting for the show to begin. As the editor in chief of Bonfire
magazine (and one of the most important women in publishing, according
to Time), Nico O'Neilly was guaranteed a front-row seat at any fashion
show she might choose to attend. But sitting in those seats, which
were inches away from the runway, made one a sitting duck. Photographers
and camera crews roamed the runway like pigs hunting for truffles,
and any number of people could simply walk up and accost you, with
anything from invitations to parties to requests for business meetings,
or simply the desire to schmooze. Nico always hated these situations
because she just wasn't good at small talk, unlike Victory, for instance,
who within two minutes would be talking to a garage attendant about
his children. The result was that people often mistook her for a snob
or a bitch, and not possessing the gift of gab, Nico couldn't explain
that this simply wasn't true. When confronted with the eager, needy
face of a stranger, Nico froze, unsure of what they really wanted,
convinced that she wasn't going to be able to give it to them. And
yet, when it came to her work and the impersonal, faceless public
at large, she was brilliant. She knew what the general public liked—it
was the individual public that got her flummoxed.
This was certainly one of her flaws, but at forty-two, she had come
to the realization that it was useless to keep battling yourself and
far easier to accept that you weren't perfect. The best thing to do
was to minimize uncomfortable situations and move on. And so, checking
her watch and seeing that it was now seven-twenty, meaning she'd only
have to be in the hot seat for ten minutes, after which everyone's
eyes would be focused on the runway, she started up the stairs.
She was immediately approached by two photographers who appeared to
pop out from behind a large urn to take her picture. Ever since she'd
become the editor in chief of the venerable (and dusty) Bonfire magazine
six years ago, and had turned it into the glossy, pop-culture bible
for entertainment, media, and politics, she'd been photographed at
every event she attended. At first, uncertain of what to do, she had
posed for the photographers, but she'd quickly realized that standing
in front of a barrage of flashbulbs while trying to look even remotely
natural (or as if she were enjoying it) was never going to be one
of her strong suits. On top of that, Nico never wanted to get caught
up in the dangerous misapprehension that plagued this town—that
you were only someone if you were photographed. She'd seen this happen
to too many people in her business. They started thinking they were
celebrities themselves, and before you knew it, they were more concerned
with being a star than doing the work. And then their concentration
started slipping and they got fired and, as had recently happened
to a man she knew, had to move to Montana.
Where no one ever heard from him again.
And so, Nico had decided that while she couldn't avoid the photographers,
she didn't have to pose for them either. Instead, she simply went
about her business, acting like the photographers didn't exist. The
result was that in every photograph of Nico O'Neilly, she was always
on the go. Walking from the Town Car to the theater, briskly marching
down the red carpet, her face usually caught only in profile as she
breezed past. Naturally, this made for an uneasy relationship with
the press, and for a while, they'd called her a bitch as well. But
years of consistent behavior ("Consistency," Nico always
said, "is the handmaiden of success") had paid off, and
now Nico's refusal to pose was seen as a sort of charming eccentricity,
a defining feature of her personality.
She hurried past the two photographers and through the French doors,
where more paparazzi were standing behind a velvet rope. "There's
Nico!" someone shouted excitedly. "Nico! Nico O'Neilly!"
It was all so silly, Nico thought, but not really unpleasant. In fact,
it was actually heartwarming that they were so happy to see her. Of
course, she'd been seeing them for years, and Bonfire had purchased
photographs from most of them. She gave them an amused smile as she
passed by, and with a little half wave, called out, "Hi guys."
"Hey Nico, who are you wearing?" called out a hearty woman
with short blond hair, who'd probably been photographing the scene
for over twenty years.
"Victory Ford," Nico said.
"I knew it!" the woman said with satisfaction. "She
always wears Ford."
Most of the crowd was already in the Pavilion, the large tent where
Victory's fashion show would take place, so Nico was able to pass
effortlessly through the velvet rope. Inside the Pavilion it was a
different story, however. A bleacher eight rows high rose nearly to
the top of the tent, and directly in front of the runway were more
bleachers sequestered by a low metal railing behind which hundreds
of photographers stood, jockeying for position. On the runway itself,
which was covered in plastic, the scene resembled a giant cocktail
party. There was a festive, back-to-school excitement in the air,
as people who hadn't seen each other since the last big party in the
Hamptons greeted each other as if they'd been separated for years.
The mood was infectious, but Nico looked at the crowd with dismay.
How was she ever going to maneuver her way through that?
For a second, she considered leaving, but quickly rejected the idea.
Victory Ford was her best friend. She was just going to have to battle
her way through the crowd and hope for the best.
As if sensing her distress, a young woman suddenly appeared at her
side. "Hi Nico," she said brightly, as if they were old
friends. "Can I show you to your seat?" Nico put on her
best party face—a stiff, awkward smile—and handed the
girl her invitation. The girl began pushing through the crowd. A photographer
held up his camera and took her picture, several people she knew waved
eagerly and pushed in to shake hands or air kiss. Security men were
barking uselessly at the crowd, trying to get people to take their
seats. After several minutes, Nico and her escort arrived in the middle
of the runway, where Nico finally spotted her seat. On a white card
edged with the whimsical border that was featured on Victory Ford's
label was printed her name, Nico O'Neilly.
Nico sat down gratefully.
Immediately, there was a cluster of photographers in front of her,
snapping her picture. She stared ahead to the other side of the runway,
which appeared to be much more organized than her section—at
least everyone had taken their seats. Both seats on either side of
her were still empty. Turning her head, she caught the eye of Lyne
Bennett, the cosmetics mogul. The sight of him made Nico smile inwardly.
It wasn't that Lyne didn't have a good reason to be at a fashion show,
especially since cosmetics and perfume and fashion were so intertwined.
It was just that Lyne was such a notoriously macho businessman, she
couldn't imagine him having any real interest in women's clothing.
He was probably there to ogle the models, a pastime that few major
New York businessmen seemed to be able to resist. He waved, and she
raised her program and nodded to him in return.
She sighed and looked impatiently at her watch. It was nearly seven-thirty,
and the staff still hadn't removed the plastic liner from the runway—the
signal that the show was about to start. She glanced to her right
to see who was seated next to her, and was happy to see that the card
read "Wendy Healy," her other best friend. This was a plus—she
hadn't seen Wendy for at least a month, since the middle of summer,
before both of their families took their vacations. Wendy had gone
to Maine, which was the new summer hotspot for movie people, so designated
because there was nothing to do and it was supposed to be all about
nature. Yet Nico guessed that no self-respecting Hollywood insider
would be caught dead in a house with less than six bedrooms and at
least one or two staff even in the wilds of the Northeast. Nico had
taken her own family skiing in Queenstown, New Zealand, which Seymour,
her husband, had pointed out was as far away as you could get from
civilization without leaving civilization altogether. Nevertheless,
they had still managed to run into several acquaintances, which was
a reminder that no matter how far you might travel, you could never
really get away from New York . . .
She fiddled impatiently with the program, guessing that the delay
was somehow caused by Jenny Cadine, who was seated on the other side
of Wendy. Movie stars seemed to be a necessary evil of modern-day
life, she thought, and looking idly at the name card to her left,
she suddenly froze.
"Kirby Atwood," it read.
She quickly turned her head away, feeling dizzy, guilty, excited,
and confused all at once. Was this a coincidence? Or deliberate? Did
someone know about her and Kirby Atwood? But that was impossible.
She certainly hadn't told anyone, and she couldn't imagine that Kirby
would either. She hadn't even thought about him for at least a month.
But seeing his name now suddenly brought back the memory of that moment
in the bathroom at the nightclub Bungalow 8.
That had been at least three months ago, and she hadn't talked to
him or seen him since. Kirby Atwood was a well-known male model, whom
she had met at an after-party Bonfire was sponsoring. She'd been standing
by herself at the bar, when Kirby had walked over to her and smiled.
He was so good-looking, she immediately dismissed him, assuming he'd
mistaken her for someone else—someone who could help his career.
And then, when she was sitting at the VIP table, looking at her watch
and wondering how quickly she could leave without appearing rude,
Kirby had sat down next to her. He was really very sweet, and had
fetched her a drink, and after talking to him for five minutes, she'd
begun thinking about what it might be like to have sex with him. She
assumed that Kirby would never be interested, but it was impossible
for a woman to have a conversation with a man like Kirby and not desire
him. She knew she was on dangerous territory, and not wanting to risk
making a fool of herself, got up to go to the bathroom. And Kirby
followed her. Right into the bathroom and into the stall!
It was pathetic, but those few minutes in the bathroom stall had been
some of the best moments of her life. For weeks after, she kept thinking
about it. The way his dark hair looked on his forehead, the exact
color of his full lips (beige cherry, with a darker line where the
lip met the skin, almost as if he was wearing lip liner), and how
those lips had felt on her mouth. Soft and smooth and wet. (Her husband,
Seymour, always puckered his mouth and gave her dry little kisses.)
Her whole face felt like it was being enveloped in those lips—her
legs literally went weak—and she couldn't believe she could
still feel that way. At forty-two! Like a teenager . . .
Thankfully, nothing had happened after that. Kirby had given her his
phone number, but she'd never called. Having an affair with a male
underwear model would be ridiculous. Of course, at least half of the
married male executives at Splatch-Verner were having affairs, and
most of them barely bothered to cover it up. And she made no secret
of the fact that she found their behavior disgusting . . .
But what was she going to do now, here in public, on full display
in front of half of New York? Should she act like she didn't know
him? But what if he brought it up? Or worse, what if he didn't remember?
Victory, who was still single, would know just how to handle it—she
was probably in situations like this all the time. But Nico had been
with the same man for over fourteen years, and when you were with
one man for that long, you lost your ability to navigate romantic
situations with other men.
This is not a romantic situation, she reminded herself sternly. She
would say hello to Kirby as if he were a casual acquaintance (which
is what he was), and she would watch the fashion show and go home.
It would all be perfectly normal and innocent.
But then Kirby appeared in front of her.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, loudly and enthusiastically, as if
he were more than pleasantly surprised to see her. She glanced up,
planning to keep a cool, disinterested look on her face, but as soon
as she saw him, her heart started beating and she was sure her smile
resembled that of a sappy schoolgirl.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, taking the seat next
to her. The seats were crammed tightly together, so there was almost
no way to sit next to him without their arms touching. She felt giddy
with excitement.
"Victory Ford is one of my best friends."
Kirby nodded. "I wish I'd known that. I can't believe I'm sitting
next to you. I've been looking everywhere for you."
This was so astonishing that Nico didn't know what to say. And looking
around to see if anyone was observing them, she decided that given
the circumstances, it was probably best to say nothing at all.
She nodded, and sneaking a look at his face was immediately reminded
of their kiss. She recrossed her legs, beginning to feel aroused.
"You never called me," he said simply. The tone in his voice
made her think that he was genuinely hurt. "And I couldn't call
you."
She turned her head away, hoping to make it appear as if they were
merely having a casual conversation. "Why not?" she said.
He leaned a little closer and touched her leg. "Get this,"
he said. "It's so stupid. I knew who you were—I mean, I
knew you were famous and everything—but I couldn't remember
where you worked."
His expression was partly embarrassed and partly amused, as if he
had no choice but to be entertained by his own stupidity, and hoped
she would be too. Nico smiled, suddenly feeling a fluttering of hope.
If Kirby really didn't know who she was, maybe he was genuinely interested
in her after all.
"Bonfire magazine," she whispered out of the side
of her mouth.
"Right. I knew that," Kirby said. "But I couldn't remember.
And I didn't want to ask anyone because then they'd think I was really
dumb."
Nico found herself nodding sympathetically, as if she was often in
a similar situation and completely understood his feelings.
A photographer jumped in front of them and snapped their picture.
Nico quickly turned her head away. That was the last thing she needed—a
photograph of her and Kirby Atwood. She must stop flirting with him,
she reminded herself firmly. But Kirby wasn't the kind of young man
who was good at hiding his feelings. He casually touched her leg again
to get her attention. "I kept thinking I would run into you,"
he said, continuing his story. "And then we could . . . Well,
you know," he said, with a seductive shrug. "I mean, I just
met you and I liked you, you know? And I never like that many people.
I mean, I know a lot of people, but I don't really like them . . ."
She glanced over at Lyne Bennett, who was staring curiously at her
and Kirby, probably wondering what she had to talk about with a male
model. She had to stop this.
"I know exactly what you mean," she whispered, keeping her
eyes forward.
"And now, here I am, sitting next to you at a fashion show,"
Kirby exclaimed. "It's that word . . . what is it? Comet?"
"Kismet," Nico said. She shifted in her seat, the word suddenly
causing her to see the inevitable. I'm going to sleep with Kirby Atwood,
she thought wildly. She didn't know when it would happen, or where.
She only knew that it would happen. She would do it once and not tell
anyone and never do it again.
"That's it. Kismet," Kirby repeated. He smiled at her. "I
like that about you," he said. "You're smart. You know words.
Most people hardly know words anymore. Have you noticed that?"
She nodded, feeling flushed. She hoped no one was paying attention.
Luckily, it was hot in the tent, so her distress wouldn't appear unusual.
She wanted to fan herself with her program the way several other people
were—pointedly, to indicate their annoyance at the show being
late—but she decided it would be too undignified.
As if sensing the restlessness, one of the drummers began striking
a beat, which was taken up by the other drummers positioned in the
front row on either side of the runway. There was a small commotion,
and Jenny Cadine, surrounded by four security people, came out from
behind the scrim that separated the runway from the backstage area,
and took her seat, with Wendy following behind.
The drumming got louder as Wendy sat down and began telling Nico about
the mosquitoes in Maine. Two workers quickly rolled up the plastic
lining. The blinding white runway lights came up, and suddenly, the
first model appeared.
She was wearing a sharp-collared short fuchsia jacket paired with
a long green skirt that ended just above the ankle, and Nico's first
thought was that the effect of those two colors together should have
been jarring. But instead it looked just right—daring, but subtly
so—as if it were perfectly natural that everyone would put these
colors together. But after that, she was lost. Nico always prided
herself on her ability to compartmentalize, to control the focus of
her mind and hone it intently on the matter—or person—at
hand, but for once, her famous concentration seemed to be failing
her. She stared at the model as she strolled past, trying to remember
the details of the outfit so she could talk to Victory about it later,
but her brain refused to cooperate. The beating of the drums was pounding
away her resistance, and all she could think about was Kirby and that
glorious feeling of being overcome.
Excerpted from LIPSTICK JUNGLE by Candace Bushnell. Copyright © 2006
Candace Bushnell. All rights reserved. Available wherever books are
sold.
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