Product Description

If you think Brazilian is a nationality, that PJs are pyjamas, and that beyond is somewhere far away, then you have never met a Bergdorf blonde. Welcome to the glamorous world of Park Avenue princesses who careen through New York in search of the ever-elusive fiance and the perfect fake tan.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #498208 in Books
• Published on: 2004-04-29
• Original language: English
• Binding: Hardcover
• 320 pages

Review
Yet another tale of New York girls with more room on their credit cards than thoughts between their ears-but not in a bad way. There may come a time in the future when a scholar of literature will come across a copy of this debut novel and shudder, thinking it one of those post-millennium Manhattan books that worship Vera Wang and Harry Winston as deities, regard Us Weekly as a holy text, and treat reality like a sexuality transmitted disease. That would be a shame, because if books of this sort must exist-and the publishing powers-that-be seem to have decided that they must-they should all go down as smoothly as this one. Vogue contributing editor Sykes has a frightening insight into the mindset of unemployed, label-addicted blonds. When she's not working (which appears to be 99% of the time), our fashion journalist narrator/author stand-in is being dragged around Manhattan by Julie, her Upper East Side PAP (Park Avenue Princess, one of the story's less inspired acronyms, of which there are plenty). They shop, they spa, they obsess over food allergies and hair highlights. The narrator hooks up with a photographer whose Jude Law looks are belied by his Freddy Krueger personality; their engagement goes to pot pretty spectacularly, but it's nothing that a round of Bellinis and a fake bake (tan) can't cure. There are more romantic contretemps and even a suicide attempt (with Advil: these girls aren't too bright), but by the close everything gets wrapped up prettier than a Tiffany's gift box. Be assured, this is all as ungodly shallow as it sounds, but at least Sykes knows how vain and ridiculous her characters are. She makes no attempt to redeem them and in the end really does want the girls just to have fun, which lets the reader come along for a guilt-free ride that's akin to being let loose on Fifth Avenue with Donald Trump's platinum card. Like a dozen Paris Hiltons bombed on champagne, but funny. (Kirkus Reviews)

Customer Reviews

Bergdorf Bores
I hate to disappoint any of you who, like me, were looking forward to the sharp and witty read of Trading Up or The Devil Wears Prada. I was waiting impatiently for its publication and was delighted to pick up a copy last week. Started reading it straight away and, after only ten pages or so, was feeling terribly confused and cheated because it's absolutely dreadful. The plot line is awfully weak, the main character "Moi" is characterless and the book is, quite frankly, one hell of a bore. I was hoping for the low down on the NY elite, with a bit of cynical commentry but after only half-way through, I have put it down for good. I can't take another page. Goodness knows why Plum Sykes has shot her chances at a potentially explosive theme - threats from Anna Wintour perhaps? This is a children's book at best. Do yourself a favour - don't waste your money!!

Duff Plum
First thing: please, whatever you do, don't fall into the trap of thinking this is a so-bad-it's-good novel. It's just rubbish. At first I couldn't believe they'd got Candace Bushnell to blurb it, but now I see it was an act of sublime strategy on her part- you can't help to appreciate just how brilliant and sharp and funny her writing is after reading this flabby, empty and shallow nothingness, especially as Sykes even tries to ape (sorry, 'channel') Bushnell at some points- 'I read all the time,' said Jolene. 'I would estimate I read Vogue magazine at least once a day.'(Bergdorf Blondes) '...Alexis said, 'I'm literary. I read. I'll sit down and read a whole magazine from cover to cover.' (Sex and the City).

So what is wrong with this book? Why does everyone who reads it hate it so much? Oh, there are so many reasons. Maybe it's the tone and delivery, which is an intensely irritating hybrid of wittering-English-posh-girl and witless-American-valley-teen speak, with a few French words thrown in as Sykes tries to channel Holly Golightly (it's not going to happen): 'It was tres unkind of him to be so cross after all I'd been through. I mean, hello, what about some major sympathy?'. Then there's the constant repetition of Sykes' favourite phrases: why use 'going to Brazil' as a sexual metaphor just once if you can use it a hundred times (even if it has already appeared on the TV series of Sex in the City years ago)? And occasionally the book just gets cringe-makingly climb under the sofa and die awful: 'I honestly believe that if everyone was having orgasms regularly, there wouldn't be a Palestinian conflict.' I know this is supposed to be funny and flippant and charmingly daring, and it's so dull, darling, to take it all so seriously, but unfortunately neither Sykes' novel or her narrator has the wit or charisma needed to pull this kind of thing off. In fact it is, as one of Sykes' characters might say, totally icky.

But all of these flaws would be forgivable if they were propping up characters or plot or anything interesting, but it's just interchangeable blank talking heads name-checking designer dresses. It's almost impressive how the narrator manages to be at once so awful that you just want her suicide attempt in chapter 6 to be successful and so personality-free that you can't picture her, can't remember anything she says and can't care about anything she does. And then all the socialites, who are supposed to be crazy or hilariously shallow or fascinating, just blend into one big indistinguishable mass of blonde hair and blah Cartier blah Valentino blah engagements. The men are no different, the mother is a rip-off from Bridget Jones' Diary ('Now, have you met my lovely daughter?...why don't you both come to the party tomorrow? I've got the dearest little mini pita breads in from Waitrose') and you can tell a mile off who the heroine is going to end up with- oh, he's sweet and concerned and funny and simple, and oh then they disagree and she hates him, and oh then there are further hilarious complications and revelations!

This book could have been good; it could have been nasty and satirical and stylish, or flippant and trashy and entertaining, or sharp and wicked and glorious. But it isn't even funny, and - despite the fact I get as much vicarious enjoyment from hearing about the lives of the New York beautiful people as the next pyjama-wearing internet-surfing Superdrug-face-mask-wearing slob does- it's really, really boring to read. The nearest I came to laughing was when I accidentally dropped it in the bath; the nearest I came to caring was when I fished it out and realised I wouldn't be able to get my money back. I feel like Plum Sykes mugged me for a tenner. I'll never buy a book written by someone named after a fruit again.

Suckalicious!
I love books like this, or the idea of them- light, funny, gossipy insights into New York, like The Nanny, S&TC or The Devil Wears Prada. But this is TERRIBLE! It's never funny, and unbeliveably stupid. I think the author maybe thinks she's Oscar Wilde or something, only without the witty clever interesting bits. One huge problem is that there's no description of what it's like- maybe the writer is terrified fo losing friends so describes everyone as lovely in the most one dimensional way. This is pisspoor writing in a nice jacket.