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Lipstick Jungle is a novel written by New York writer and socialite Candace Bushnell, that A television series was created based on the book, starring Brooke Shields as Wendy Healy, Lindsay Price as Victory Ford, and Kim Raver as Nico. Though Bushnell's fourth book opens in familiar Sex and the City territory—a fashion show in Bryant Park where attendees sport Jimmy Choo. The New York women on the make in Lipstick Jungle are a tougher breed than Candace Bushnell's Sex and the City girls. But Carrie O'Grady.

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Lipstick Jungle book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. In a way, Candace Bushnell's Lipstick Jungle picks up where her ca. Lipstick Jungle: A Novel [Candace Bushnell] on *FREE* Browse our editors' picks for the best books of the month in fiction, nonfiction, mysteries. Lipstick Jungle [Candace Bushnell] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. It's a jungle out there. Dress accordingly. In her fourth book, Candace.

The one and the same author who wrote the widely-known "Sex and the City". I have always been suspicious of her writing talent though. When I finally had the chance to pick up the book and read it, my d If there is an award for the most ridiculous and unrealistic book ever, I would award it to Lipstick Jungle, written by Candace Bushnell. When I finally had the chance to pick up the book and read it, my disappointment was so big I was practically devastated. This is just bunch of crappy short stories which have no meaning and hard to relate to", so I said to myself after I finished reading it.

This conflict is resolved in the best way possible. The thing about Wendy is that she would have been just as awesome had she been a stay at home mum. Throughout the book we see her orchestrate the downfall of her boss. So much of being a woman is how to tell lies. Yeah, she does struggle with an unsatisfactory marital relationship.

And she does cheat on her husband. But that just makes Nico real. She has fears and desires. Overall, all the three women deal with sexism at work and home. Wendy has to deal with sexism in the form of her assistant and also indirectly in the form of her in laws and husband. Her husband expects her to earn a shitload of money for him to spend. At the same time he resents her. For being successful at her career?

For not giving enough time to the children and him? Quite possibly both. Especially the way she finds a solution to the divorce and custody problem.

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She finally accepts that her children do need her but not every minute of the day. I hated her husband. Talk about double standards and blackmail. The character I liked best was Nico.


She was badass! See, patience pays. She could tell by the tone in his voice that he was going to begrumpy again. Despitethe fact that he was being an asshole and she was pissed at him, Wendy felt asickly sweet rush of love for him.

Shane was just so good-looking and so sexy, Can you please take the baby? So I can at leasttake a shower? Wendypaused, touched by the heartwarming spectacle of father and daughter—couldthere be a better father than Shane? And the building inspector. Doyou know how hard it is to get a meeting with those guys? But if you want meto change it, I will.

And then it will be at least another two months before thisrestaurant opens. Now he was going to sulk. The money I make is for ourfamily. For us. You and me. She paused.

Maybe you should go back to writing screenplays. Jesus Christ, she thought. What the hell was she going to do about Shane? She blinked under the hot water, feeling around for the bottle of shampoo,and holding the bottle up to her face so she could see it, was grateful that therewas still some shampoo left.

Soaping up her hair, she wondered what more shecould do to help Shane. After all, he was a grown man. He was thirty-nineyears old. Although most of the time he seemed younger. Much, muchyounger. She liked to joke that he was her fourth child. Was he freaking outabout turning forty? But this was nothing new. He wasthree years younger, which was quite daring at the time, a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a twenty-four-year-old man, and he was good-looking enoughto be an actor.

It was beneath him. He was, he said, a creative genius. She wasthe practical one. He was so gorgeous. And sweet. But alwaysa little high-strung. He was writing his screenplay and trying to get money forhis independent movie.

City slickers

She helped him. But then, in typical Hollywood fashion, nothing happened. Shane wascommissioned to write screenplays, but none of them ever got made. And for reasons she could never quite understand, her career kept And now Shane, who had gone fromwriting screenplays to writing a novel unpublished , was trying to open arestaurant.

It would probably be a disaster.

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But then she could deduct the money from her taxes. She stepped out of the shower, and as she did so, Shane came into the bath-room and handed her her cell phone. She looked at him curiously. She sighed in annoyance. She put the phone to her ear while toweling off her legs. There was a momentary silence that was like an accusation.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Minniver hadarrived and, scowling, was feeding the children bagels with cream cheese; Minniver said grudgingly, in her clipped English accent. Inside were ametal desk, a brand-new computer, several unpacked boxes, toys, variousDVDs, a large treadmill used once , and three pairs of skis.

Thetowel slipped off and she looked down at her chest. God, her breasts were reallysagging. She was going to have to seriously consider having themdone. The Spotted Pig. What the hell was he talking about? Jenny Cadine and Tanner Coleare the stars. It was standard procedure for assistants to stay on the line, so theycould take notes on the conversation if necessary. Just tell them Victor Matrick changedthe time. It was allshe needed: People in her position always were.

No matter howgood her numbers were, the president of Parador Pictures would be a vanitychoice for the new CEO. And then what would she do? What would happen toher children?

To Shane?

Goddammit, she thought, picking up the towel. It meant she was going tohave to work even harder, and she was going to have to be smart about it. It was called Ragged Pilgrims, and was scheduled to begin shootingin two months.

But right now, Ragged Pilgrims was like a little baby. It needed constantattention—bathing, feeding, and diaper changing—if it was going to surviveto the next phase of its life. The last thing she had time to do now was to be outthere schmoozing. Her phone rang and, checking the number, she saw that it was another call Was Victor calling her back?

Miranda Delaney? And then, clearing her throat: Especially asNico was rising up at Splatch-Verner, secretly angling to become president ofthe entire magazine division, which would put her just under Victor in termsof power.

She only hoped Nico could get the job before Victor lost his mind. Her sartorial consistency gave her staff andco-workers a sense of always knowing what they were going to get with her,and gave her the peace of mind in knowing that every day was going to startout the same. Oh God, she thought. The car was on the FDR drive now and, turning her head, she glanced outat the bleak brown buildings of the projects that stretched for blocks along thedrive.

Something inside her sank at the sight of all that sameness, and she sud-denly felt defeated. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Meanwhile, time was marching on, and allthat was happening to her was that she was getting older and smaller, and oneday she would be no bigger than a dot, and then she would simply disappear.

Like a small leaf burned up under a magnifying glass in the sun. Andthen, one morning, time had caught up with her and she had woken up andrealized that she was there. She should have been thrilled. But instead, she felt tired. Like all thosethings belonged to someone else. She took the heel of one spectator pump and pushed it down hard on thetoe of her other foot. She was not going to think like this.

She was not going toallow some random, inexplicable feeling to get her down.

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Especially not this morning, which, she reminded herself, was so potentiallyimportant to her career. WithPeter installed as CEO, she was sure he was going to make big changes, and shewanted to be in on the action from the beginning. Nico took out a compact and quickly checked her makeup. And unfortunately, success was like beauty: And so she had deter-mined that she would move up in the company. The only potential stumbling block was her boss, Mike Harness, who hadhired her six years ago.

But there was a principle involved: No woman had yetsucceeded to the position of CEO of any Splatch-Verner division, and it wasabout time one did. The Town Car pulled through a gap in the chain-link fence that sur-rounded the helipad, and stopped a few feet from the green Sikorsky helicopterthat sat placidly on the landing pad.

Nico got out of the car and began walkingbriskly to the helicopter. Before she reached it, however, she suddenly paused,surprised by the sound of another car coming up behind her. She turned to seea dark blue Mercedes barreling through the gate. This was not possible, she thought, with a mixture of anger, distress, andshock. He was going to try to take creditfor the meeting. No doubthe knew she was annoyed, but in a corporation like Splatch-Verner, whereeverything you said, did, and even wore was potential watercooler fodder, itwas always imperative to keep your emotions to yourself.

And then everyone would talk about how she had lost it. Instead, shelooked at Mike with a slightly perplexed smile on her face. She nodded, her face arranged into its usual expression of total impassive-ness. As she sat down in the plush leather seat,she thought about how it had taken her three months to arrange this meetingwith Peter Borsch, and about three minutes for Mike to ruin it.

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The memo in question was ane-mail Victor Matrick had sent to all employees regarding the window blinds. Every few months he would take an unannounced strollthrough the halls of the Splatch-Verner building, and the result would be thesememos. Victor Matrickwas certainly crazy, but not in the way people thought he was. Nico picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal and opened it with a snap. Selden Rosewas the president of the cable division, and although he and Wendy were atequal levels, Wendy always worried that Selden Rose was trying to expand histerritory to encompass her division.

Nico stared down at her newspaper, pretending to be interested in a storyabout the retail business.

Look at Mike, she thought, glancing over at him. He was leaning forwardin his seat, trying to shout something at the pilot about sports over the noise ofthe engines, which the pilot had just started. Nico often suspected that Mike had become CEO and presi-dent of Verner Publications because he always managed to get Victor Matrick,who was obsessed with all forms of sports and competition, tickets to everymajor sporting event, which Mike, naturally, also attended.

And now, this, she thought: Borsch might really come in handy. His appear-ance this morning was no less than an open declaration of war. From now on,it was her or him. But years of corporate life had taught her to contain her feel-ings, to never let your opponent know what you were thinking, or what youwere planning to do to them if necessary. She folded up the newspaper andsmoothed her skirt.

But notincluding her had been an open insult that people had talked about for weeksbefore and after. If Mike wanted to crush her, he should have been more cleverabout it, she thought.

But Mike had made a mistake, and now all she had to do was play alongwith him. Andif it went well, and Mike did go to Victor, Victor would know immediatelywhat was going on. As the helicopter swooped low,past the tall buildings that resembled a forest of lipsticks, Nico felt a frisson ofsomething close to sexual excitement, which she experienced every time shecaught sight of the familiar concrete-and-steel landscape. New York City wasstill the best place in the world, she thought, and certainly one of the few placesin the world where women like her could not only survive but rule.

And as the Even her coffeemaker was happier than she was, Victory thought disconso-lately, pouring the bitter liquid into a simple white mug. She peeked at the clock on the wall, not really wanting to remind herself ofthe time. It was eleven a. Which was also ironically appropriate, she thought, spooning three heapingteaspoons of sugar into her coffee. She had tried something new, and her efforts had been rejected.

The worldwas a very cruel place. A long window seat ran the length of the French windows that looked outonto the street, and she sat down wearily.

The critics were not kind. Nearly a month hadpassed, but she could still remember every scathing word: It was better toknow the truth, and to deal with it. She looked out the window and sighed. Andlooking at the pages and pages of fashion, she was suddenly transported toanother world—a place that seemed to have unlimited possibilities, where any-thing you imagined could happen.

She sud-denly saw what she was meant to do. She was going to be a fashion designer. Itwas her destiny. Back when shewas a kid, and for years afterward, she had assumed that everyone was just likeher—and like her, they knew exactly what they were meant to do with theirlives. Even when she was ten, she could remember boldly telling the other kidsthat she was going to be a fashion designer, even though she had no idea howto get there or what fashion designers actually did.

She shook her head, remembering those early days in New York with affec- Everything was so new then, and exciting. Ateighteen, she moved to New York to attend F. By Monday at eight thirty-threea. She worked day and night,snatching a few hours of sleep on the used fold-out couch she had rescued fromthe street.

The city was different back then—poor and crumbling—kept aliveonly by the gritty determination and steely cynicism of its occupants. Butunderneath the dirt was the apple-cheeked optimism of possibility, and whileshe worked, the whole city seemed to throb along with her. She cut and sewedto the background medley of car horns and shouts and the endless beat of themusic from boom boxes. The possibility of failure never crossed her mind. The Garment District was like an Ara-bian bazaar.

The streets were lined with mom-and-pop shops containing Purse snatchers, street people, and hus-tlers lurked near the entrances to the buildings, and Victory clutched the bagcontaining her six-piece collection tightly to her chest, imagining the irony ofhaving worked so hard only to have it snatched away.

What if she kept trying and failing? The way she lookedat the samples, holding them up and turning them over and scrutinizing thefabric, made Victory feel as if she herself were being inspected. Victory had no idea what Myrna was talking about. Myrna shrugged. Afterward, she ran out onto the street, dizzy with triumph. She strode up Thirty-seventh Street to Fifth Avenue, notknowing where she was going, but only that she wanted to be in the middle ofeverything. She walked up Fifth Avenue, weaving joyfully between thepassersby, and stopping at Rockefeller Center to watch the skaters.


The city waslike a silvery Oz, full of magic possibilities, and it was only when she reachedthe park and had exhausted some of her energy that she went to a phone boothand called her best friend from F. But ambition andburning desire the kind of desire, she imagined, most women had for men carried her forward.

All the pieces had sold. She was eighteen years old, and she was in business. All through her twenties, she just kept going. She suggested Victory call a man namedHoward Fripplemeyer. Howard Fripplemeyer was everything Myrna promised and worse. His clothes were brown, and his hairalarming—he wore a toupee that jutted from his forehead like a shingle. It seemed likea good deal to her.

Plus, she needed him.

When you think about money, you get all mixed up. There was a woman who lived next door tothem who was a banker, and one evening Victory explained the situation toher. Youcan do this yourself. She was going to be stuck with Howard and his stench forever. If she ever gotout of this situation, she vowed, she would never take on a partner again.

And then Howard did something strange. He opened another fashion com-pany in the building across the street. The box always containedthree coffees and a knish. Howard seemed to have an endless network of garmento bud-dies whom he talked to hourly, and Victory wondered how any of them man-aged to get any work done. So you can have a couple of pretty pictures in Vogue? Needing something to wear on a Saturday And nothing too out thereeither.

Guys want to see their gals in something pretty and demure. His teeth were gray with a whitish scum in the cracks, as if hecould barely be bothered to brush his teeth. Youever see a woman designer in there? No way. And one day he did. She ran into Myrna Jameson on the street a few weeks later. Victory looked at her in surprise, shaking her head and thinking thatMyrna must have made a mistake.

Myrna held up her palms in protest. I was in the DressBarn in the Five Towns on Sunday and they had a whole rack of dresses thatlooked just like yours. They even had the lace gloves with the velvet ribbons. In the Garment District, people referred tothe buildings by their numbers only, and Broadway was the most down-market building in the area. Lots of clothing were auctioned off to the com-mercial chain retailers like slaves; the building was the ugly stepchild of theindustry that no one wanted to talk about.

The foyer in reeked of grease from the millions of bags of takeout foodthat had passed through the lobby in the last seventy years.

Review: Lipstick Jungle by Candace Bushnell | Books | The Guardian

She doubled over in pain. He had hardly bothered to even change thename. He must think she was an idiot. Did he really think she was going to lethim get away with this? Obviously, he did. He probably saw her as a stupid lit-tle girl who would do whatever he wanted, someone he could use and rip offand then toss away without any consequences.

Well, he had another think coming. He had stolen her child, and she was Itwas one thing to fuck with her, she decided, but another thing entirely to fuckwith her business. These feelings were completely new to her. She had no idea she could everbe so angry. Howard was sitting at ametal desk with his feet up, shoving something into his mouth that appeared toconsist entirely of crumbs, and talking on the phone.

So what? And then you come in here, screaming like a crazywoman. Getoutta here. He walked up to her and jerkedher arm, pulling her toward the door. Every vein in her head throbbed with anger and humiliation. For a few sec-onds she stood in the hallway in shock, unable to comprehend what had justhappened.

Howard should have been scared of her; he was in the wrong, and heshould have at least had the decency to look frightened. And goddammit, now he knew that she knew.