I’ve previously (1, 2) covered articles written by Kate Mulvey, the 55-year old perpetually single woman who, with her 2:1 in Italian and French from the University of Kent, is just too damned smart for any man. In the comments under the most recent post, someone wrote:
She seems to have a decent enough shtick writing articles for the Mail & Telegraph designed to generate clicks from equally dysfunctional females and us folks seeking a bit of “look at the nutter” entertainment.
Probably not paid enough to live on so there is likely to be a “real” person (worth in excess of £6k) behind this unlikely and highly unappealing persona.
To which I replied:
You know, I’m rather convinced by the theory this is just an alter-ego, dreamed up for the purposes of writing articles. If that was the case, I’d be rather impressed.
I’m becoming more convinced by this theory. Yesterday a reader sent me a link to this article by the same woman:
Looking back at my mid-20s, I lived a glamorous life. A roving reporter, constant parties and a dating diary full of eligible bachelors, I was footloose and fancy free. In my 30s, the landscape started to change. Friends either got married or tightly clutched the hand of a potential husband-to-be.
So far so Mulvey.
Then nine years ago, aged 46, I met Josh through friends at a dinner party. It was an instant mutual attraction. He was a handsome banker and we lived together in his house in Barnes, South-West London.
When he proposed to me one summer in Italy, I was over the moon. I saw us enjoying a life of comfortable companionship. Just the two of us — neither of us had children.
Then, one day, just shy of my 50th birthday, after four years together, something inside me snapped. I realised that Josh was never going to commit and told him the relationship was over.
In the the first article I fisked she said she broke off a year-long relationship with a chap called Phil when she was 50. She also said she’d never been enagaged. In her second article she said she came out of a seven-year relationship “the wrong side of 50”. Then there was this from the first article:
Three months ago I went to Italy with my then boyfriend, Philip. As we were checking into the hotel, I struck up a conversation with the receptionist in Italian (just one of the five languages I speak). But while I was enjoying myself, chatting away, it became clear that Philip most certainly was not.
He shuffled from foot to foot, muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes like a stroppy teenager.
Then in the lift he turned on me. ‘I was wondering when you were going to let me join your conversation,’ he snapped. I tried to laugh it off but I knew this was the beginning of yet another argument.
But by the second article it had changed to:
I was about to call it a day and demand my money back, when my matchmaker sent through the detail a publisher from Oxford. We met at a pub near his home.
But very quickly the debonair man who had seemed laid-back in London had morphed into a raging chauvinist in the countryside. When I started to chat to waiter in Italian, it became clear that my date was not happy. He muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes like a stroppy teenager.
“I WAS WONDERING when you were going to let me join your conversation,” he boomed. I tried to laugh it off but clocked this was a man with a fragile ego.
Now this woman is either nuts or she’s making stuff up and her editors not fussy about consistency between one story and the next. My guess is the whole character is an author’s alter-ego designed in precisely the way my commenter described. In this latest article she’s telling us how she’s moved back in with her parents:
There is still a stigma about a grown woman living back home. Being middle-aged is hard enough. But when you are middle-aged, unmarried and living with your dad, it’s a thousand times harder.
My friends joke that I am the oldest teenager in Britain. Who can blame them? What could be sadder than a woman in advanced middle age who can’t even bring a boyfriend back for a glass of wine or — God forbid — to stay the night.
Is anyone believing a word of this?
On the plus side, I have started seeing a wonderful man, who lives down the road in Fulham.
No doubt we’ll be hearing about this imaginary man’s failings in a few months time. If someone’s paying her for this tripe I suppose it’s worth it, but I do hope she’s not using her real photo to illustrate the articles.