Bushnell’s latest smacks of sex and scandal

Candace Bushnell is back with her fourth novel, "Lipstick Jungle." In it, the “Sex and the City” author introduces us to a set of super-swanky, wildly successful, 40-something friends who will do anything to have it all. Bushnell was invited on the “Today” show to discuss the book. Here's an excerpt:

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.

MORE FROM TODAY BOOKS: FICTION

10 years later, ‘Nanny Returns’ to new problems

10 years later, ‘Nanny Returns’ to new problems Paranormal romance plays in ‘The Seven Rays’ ‘Viagra Diaries’ explores dating among 60+ set Al Roker’s new mystery novel asks, who did it? Alex Cross is back in Patterson’s latest thriller Lupica’s latest book: ‘Million-Dollar Throw’ Grisham back in ‘Ford County’ for short stories Richard Belzer: ‘I Am Not a Psychic!’ Author Adriana Trigiani forays into teen fiction ‘206 Bones’: A captivating new crime novel   Add Today Books: Fiction headlines to your news reader: