I always liked the vicious rumour circulating around the time of the last Oscars, that Julia Roberts had (allegedly) paid Benjamin Bratt to stick with her up until the ceremony because she was damned if she was going to have her moment of glory compromised by being single. I liked it because even if it wasn’t true, it sums up just how basic our world view continues to be. Julia Roberts, the biggest female box-office draw in the world, winner of the best actress award … Yeah, yeah, but all anyone wants to know is: “Has she got a boyfriend?” Not “Wouldn’t it be sexy if she was in love?” but “What’s the point if she hasn’t got a man?”
The Roberts-Bratt thing sprang to mind when the news broke that Kylie Minogue had split from James Gooding (“Kylie may be adored by her legions of fans,” wrote Hello!, “but as she faces life as a single woman again, at what price?”) Ah, what price indeed. Kylie is, after all, the big 33, and what’s a peachy bottom if you haven’t got an Essex model to show it off to?
The whole singleton hysteria — which we like to date from the genesis of Bridget Jones — has subtly changed over the course of recent months. We’ve gone from “Yes, so we’re desperate but adorable” to “Hmmm, quite interesting, this rogue group of females” all the way back to “Now they know they are nature’s little practical joke”.
Recently several books have been published that add further insight to the debate. There’s India Knight’s get-out-there look at life as a single, thirtysomething mother on the dating scene, Don’t You Want Me. Then there’s Linda Grant’s I’d-like-to-get-out-there-but-no-one-can-see-me-because-I’m-over-40 take on the 40s single scene, Still Here, and there’s even an academic one. James Tooley’s thesis in The Miseducation of Women is that single women in their 30s are miserable, having been lured into believing that a career was the route to fulfilment, only to realise — just too late, obviously — that there is no substitute for a husband and a baby.
All of them are right, of course. You can find a man if you want one. Women’s honeypot rating does drop off a bit as they approach their 50s, while men continue to pull well below their age. And, of course, there are women regretting having put their faith in the IVF fairy. My problem is that none of these big three reasons for being single — pickiness, men’s inability to find anything over 35 attractive, and having been handcuffed to my desk since puberty — rings true for this particular elderly primate.
There comes a point when people ask why you are single (they do every so often, out of politeness) when you have to face up and tell the truth, providing they have half an hour to spare. Number one: when everyone else was getting married in that crucial catchment phase around the early 30s, you were going out with reprobates and had no desire to stop the party. Number two: you were fantastically immature and shallow in the sense that until quite recently you couldn’t get it together for anyone who didn’t have a full head of hair, a motorbike, a nice bum and/or a job as a foreign correspondent (that is, not the marrying type). Number three: you may not be all that yourself. Number four: the longer you are single, the more likely you are to think: yes, all right, but is he really the one? Which is not the same as being picky; it’s more to do with having invested too much time in looking to call off the search, unless you’re absolutely sure you’ve got the right man.
Number five: the reason all divorcees find someone else within six weeks is to do with habit and need. Contrary to popular opinion, suitors do not shy away from damaged women with children and debts, they shy away from women who look like they’re getting along all right by themselves. Number six: people have twigged that the only real fun to be had is from sleeping with married people; we singletons are just too available. Number seven: it is quite fun being single (though not when you’re ill and can’t get to the shops for Bovril). Number eight: now and again you meet a man you could go out with, but for reasons to do with personal preference, sloth, bad timing and, frankly, nerves, you just haven’t.
So there we have it. Nothing to do with pushing the glass ceiling when I should have been down at the wine bar. Or staying at home feeling sorry for myself and thinking they should come to me. Or being totally invisible at parties — well, not after a few, anyway. Just single.