Bergdorf Blondes

The New York Times

Into the blender go Bridget Jones, Anita Loos, "Sex and the City" and "Clueless"; out comes a diabolically amusing concoction. Ms. Sykes somehow manages to treat this as satire while also playing it nearly straight in a book that boasts as many flagrant product plugs (Michael Kors, anyone?) as it does funny one-liners. — Janet Maslin

Publishers Weekly

They're ravenous. They're ruthless. They live in a strictly hierarchical, alpha-dog, eat-or-be-eaten world. No, it's not a rerun of Wild America; it's the world of dressed-to-the-nines Park Avenue heiresses, aka Bergdorf Blondes, botoxed to within an inch of their barely-into-the-third-decade lives. Our unnamed London-born heroine is New York's favorite "champagne-bubble-about-town" and just as effervescent and exhilarating as a fine bottle of Dom Perignon. Blissfully self-interested and flush with the cheeriness that comes from being, well, flush, Miss Disposable Income 2004 sashays her way through New York society in search of the perfect P.H. (Potential Husband)-"Have you any idea how awesome your skin looks if you are engaged?"-and the perfect butt-shaping pair of Chloe jeans. Despair occasionally strikes when her latest prince turns into yet another toad, but it's nothing an invitation to an uber-exclusive Hermes sale and a gallon or so of Bellinis can't fix. She's got the creme de la creme along with her for the ride, including her best friend, the fabulously wealthy heiress Julie Bergdorf, who is tres supportive of her nervous breakdown-"You'll be able to dine out on how crazy you went in Paris for months"-and a posse of chattering, Harry Winston-bedecked clones with whom to limo around New York. Tacky? Absolutely. But it's impossible not to be massively entertained by a woman who refers euphemistically to oral sex as "going to Rio" in memory of the first man who suggested she get a Brazilian bikini wax, considers vodka a food group and who holds up glamour as the first of the commandments. This is a savvy and viciously funny trip into a glittery, glitzy world we sure wouldn't want to live in-but by which we're more than happy to be vicariously consumed for the length of a book. (Apr.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Sykes, a contributing editor at Vogue, got an advance of more than $600,000 for this roman fluff about thin, chic, Botoxed, waxed, wealthy, and designer-clad blondes. The two main characters, "Moi," the narrator, and her best friend, Julie Bergdorf (who occasionally gets off on shoplifting from her family's famous department store), are both on the hunt for a P.H. (that's Prospective Husband-"The only sexually transmitted disease I wanna contract is fiance fever," says Julie). Moi scores first, snagging a handsome if mystifying celebrity photographer. However, after he breaks off their engagement, Moi attempts suicide via Aleve and gin, then moves on in short order to other P.H.s, until she ends up with-surprise!-the perfect man. Sykes's intermittently humorous first novel will delight or repel readers depending on their tolerance for innumerable brand names (Chlo butt-hugging jeans, Manolo Blahnik shoes), thrilling glimpses into a lifestyle few can even aspire to, and vacuous characters who make the Sex and the City gals and good old Bridget Jones seem like rocket scientists. Be aware of the publicists' hype, and be prepared for demand.-Nancy Pearl, Seattle P.L. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

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 girlsjust 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. Author tour. Agent: Elizabeth Sheinkman/Elaine Markson Agency; film rights handled by CAA