As I zip myself into a new Diane von Furstenberg silk shift, slip into a pair of Manolos and walk through a mist of my favourite Jo Malone perfume, I look in the mirror and smile.
I’m tastefully made up, with a fresh blow dry and just a whisper of Chanel lip gloss. I pull on a brown cashmere coat and slide my phone and keys into one of my (many) designer handbags.
And then, just as I’m leaving, I glance at the hall table and spy my credit card statement. Just enough is peeking out to show I am in debt. I feel a pang of anxiety, but push it to the back of my mind and hail a taxi. There was no time to worry about it now. My date was waiting.
Another date that had cost me hundreds of pounds – although he had paid for dinner. How had it cost so much? Well, there were necessities: I had a cut, blow dry and root touch-up for £175, while that dress cost £347. Plus the taxi fares there and back – I couldn’t risk my new dress on the Tube. All that just to look the part of the perfect woman in the hope of a happy ever after.
We all know first impressions count. Well, I have spent decades – and more than half a million pounds – trying to make a lasting impact. And after all that, I’m still single… and what’s more, I’m broke.
As a childless, unmarried woman of 63, it’s painful to admit that my spending in pursuit of love has left me in penury, unable to even pay my gas bill. It is on my dining room table, stamped with the red lettering of a final demand for £424. I spent more than that on my date outfit. It felt a greater priority.
I know it sounds bonkers. While deep down I know looks aren’t everything, the anticipation and pleasure of wearing new clothes puts me in the right frame of mind for a date. It gives me a shot of confidence, making me feel more capable, more attractive.
But the trade off is that a couple of weeks ago, I lugged my TV into the bedroom of my small London flat. Before you ask, I didn’t buy the place – I always had to rent until it was left to me by my father in 2022.
As a childless, unmarried woman of 63, it’s painful to admit that my spending in pursuit of love has left me in penury, Kate Mulvey writes
Once I’ve paid the mortgage each month and service charge, I can’t afford to put the heating on. On cold days, breakfast, work and relaxing are swathed in a duvet and crumbs.
M y life was never supposed to be like this. How did a successful writer, with a wardrobe full of expensive clothes and spending thousands on hair and beauty, end up single and broke?
Looking back, it all started in my teens. As a spotty 15-year-old with braces, my bedroom wall was adorned with cut-outs of models. Those images were seared into my DNA and having the perfect figure became a byword for a successful life.
Like so many women, I fell for the capitalist promise that the more you spent, the more beautiful you would be. The 70s movies I grew up with taught that to be loved, one had to be pretty – and pretty had a very narrow definition. Agonising over my flat chest and big nose, I fell for it, blindly buying the products that promised to make me attractive.
By my twenties, when I could afford to indulge, my obsession both with my appearance and looking for love really took off. I was working on women’s magazines, going to parties and enjoying dating eligible bachelors.
Yet none of them seemed to stick. If they didn’t tick my boxes for looks and social status, I was immediately turned off. They had to care about their own appearance as much as I cared about mine – perhaps not the recipe for a great match.
I remember once spending over £600 on a pair of black suede Jimmy Choo boots, which at the time was half a month’s salary. They hurt like hell but transformed me from lanky to slinky. When my date complimented me, I was hooked.
But then so many dates complimented me on how I looked. One called me his blonde siren, because my hair was always highlighted perfectly at a cost of £2,000 a year. Another would say he loved how I always looked so pulled-together, even for a walk in the park. This just fuelled my belief that spending on my appearance was worth the effort.
Of course, the landscape changed in my thirties. As my friends started to settle down, finding my own Mr Right became a full-time job. I struggled with mixed emotions, feeling left out and alone, and it even made me question my choices – especially when they were able to split mortgages and the bills, while I carried on forking out for dates.
W hen I got my first book deal in the mid-90s, I could have put down a deposit on a London flat that might have seen me through to my old age. I found a lovely place I could afford easily, despite my shaky financial dealings. But I changed my mind; I didn’t want the pressure of owning a property.
So instead, I walked out of Joseph in a new brown suede coat with a fur collar, and a new dress from Betsey Johnson. I went to meet a handsome banker that night and forgot all about the flat. It’s now worth over £750,000 – and I was never in a financial position to buy again.
By my late thirties I was spending the bulk of my wages on looking flawless. My biological clock was deafening by now. Men seemed non-committal or went for younger women. I was becoming desperate.
Perhaps to comfort myself through these turbulent emotional times, I would spend weekends away at fluffy-towelled spa hotels. With the cost of the room and treatments – stone massages, facials, mani-pedis – I would spend over £700 a time.
I justified overspending by telling myself it was an investment in a possible relationship, even though deep down I knew it wasn’t really true.
It seems so strange now, but I thought nothing of maxing out my credit card for yet another eye-wateringly expensive Issa dress. I’ve still got all the designer dresses in my wardrobe. It’s like they’re laughing at me. Ditto all the expensive products in my bathroom cabinets. I doubt if I looked much better than if I had smeared on some Nivea.
But I always believed that one day my hard work would pay off and I would marry someone who matched my expectations and give me financial security.
It didn’t. Even when I went out with Serge, a Swiss banker, in my thirties everything fell apart, as I struggled to keep up the illusion. It was all smoke and mirrors.
I can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out better if I had put away the cheque book and childish dreams of high living.
But I’ve always been free-wheeling, and conformity and forward planning felt unbearably oppressive.
I remember going round to my sisters’, with their young children, feeling smug that while they were cooking fish fingers, I was free to do as I pleased.
Kate has since decided to dial down her retail therapy and focus on finding emotional intimacy
I had the same attitude about paying – or, in my case, not paying – into a pension scheme. Silly me; I will soon be relying on the state pension to eat and heat.
Now, after all I’ve spent on my appearance I can’t even bring a date back to the flat. It’s freezing, and I can’t drag him into my bedroom-cum-working-cum-eating space – he would run a mile.
So, as old age creeps steadily nearer, my mantra that ‘things will be all right in the end’ doesn’t seem to be working out.
I can’t truthfully say I regret it. I’ve had more fun in my time than anyone, even if it has come at a price. Yet sometimes I feel empty and wonder why I’m still booking a table for one at 63.
It has taken me a long time to realise that having a happy, fulfilled life isn’t about dialling up the effort, buying new outfits or starving myself to slimness. In my naivety I have forgotten about looking for emotional intimacy and showing my real self.
I’m trying to dial back on my retail therapy, but it’s hard after so many years. I need it to fend off the sadness I feel.
But at least I finally know that a smile is free and goes a long way to making someone like you. Even Jimmy Choo boots don’t last forever, after all.