For its first 30 pages, The Little White Car seems like a tediously hip satire of alienated young Parisian girls numbed out on sex, drugs, and avant-garde rock & roll. Then its heroine realizes she just killed Princess Diana, and suddenly, a larky bit of chick lit becomes a lean, mean hilarity machine. Veronique and her equally vapid pal Estelle flounder through a cover-up attempt (think The Simple Life as a French reality-TV show). Dan Rhodes, author of 2003’s superior Timoleon Vieta Come Home, writes under a goofy pseudonym and races the engines on his considerable wit. (Estelle: ”What do men who smoke a lot of dope all have in common?” Veronique: ”I don’t know. Bad hair?”) A meaningless good time, particularly if you picture Paris and Nicole in the leads.