A dearth of heat in ‘Lipstick Jungle’

IN Candace Bushnell’s new novel, “Lipstick Jungle,” three women find themselves at the top of their games but not yet at the top of their professions. A fashion designer, the president of a film company and a magazine editor-in-chief, all best friends, attempt to crash through the proverbial glass ceiling without destroying their marriages, disrupting their families or jeopardizing what they’ve already achieved. Whether they can succeed is the question at the heart of this story. Whether the average reader will rejoice at the sound of the shattering glass is the question at the heart of the matter.

In her three previous books, including “Sex and the City,” which put Bushnell on the literary map, the author has proven herself to be a skillful storyteller and an astute observer of young, upwardly mobile New York women trying to find love and a lifestyle. In last year’s “Trading Up,” she gave us a protagonist so hungry for a way into the game she’d do almost anything to assure herself a place at the table. Within the chick lit genre, this kind of setup never seems to lose its appeal, especially in the hands of a writer who has the informed point of view of a pop culture sociologist.

This time out, Bushnell veers off that path to follow women in their 40s who have already made their mark but now want to make it in indelible ink. Feminists might cheer this direction, but powerful women shown to be as driven and ruthless as powerful men is not necessarily a cause for celebration. Nor do we get a voyeuristic thrill from being privy to how these elite work and play. Sure, we’re taken behind the velvet ropes and inside the VIP areas at premieres and fashion shows. And yes, there’s plenty of luxury in the form of fancy townhouses, private planes, shopping trips at Sotheby’s and American Express cards with $200,000 lines of credit. Unfortunately none of this satisfies any voyeuristic curiosity about the secrets of the rich and richer.

And even when we’re taken behind closed doors for a tryst between the married magazine editor and her boy toy, there’s no titillation. Not that sex is meant to be a big factor in this book: Bushnell herself has been quoted as saying, “Success is the new sex.”

Even if you agree with this opinion and may even welcome that news, Bushnell does herself a disservice by not giving us even one male character who inspires lust or even the slightest romantic fantasy. Even the boy toy becomes little more than an orgasm with scenery. Contemporary novels about successful independent women in their 40s may not require towers of testosterone, but without any formidable male presence in this chronicle, we’re left with the equivalent of “Sex and the City” without a guy like Big. It may be a realistic look at what life is like for these characters, but it’s truth at the cost of juice.

The result is women who seem aloof and cool even as they declare their passion. Their victories may be admirable, but their hard fought triumphs have turned them into a rarefied dispassionate species, hard to relate to for those of us who are closer to the steamy asphalt jungle than Bushnell’s lipstick one.

Carol Wolper is the author of several novels, including “The Cigarette Girl” and “Mr. Famous.”