How on earth did a successful writer, once engaged to be married, and hosting lavish dinner parties, end up single and broke?
Like everyone else in the country, my friends and I are economising – but it’s funny how the word means different things to different people. One friend tells me they have swapped date night in a fancy restaurant for home cooking and Netflix. Others are cutting back on extravagant weekends away.
I on the other hand am eating microwave meals, and sometimes feel I’m one cheque away from the bailiffs. At 63, a freelancer, and single, I often wake up in the middle of the night worrying about my future. It is playing havoc with my mental health.
This winter I realised that I couldn’t afford to turn the central heating on – so lugged my TV into the bedroom of my small London flat to be able to watch it in bed. On cold days, breakfast, work and dinner were swathed in duvet and crumbs. Apart from painful neck syndrome from sitting propped up on pillows all day, and going a bit weird from staring at the four walls, it did the job.
I have no savings to rely on for when things go wrong in the flat. Only last year we had to get the plumber in for a badly blocked sink, then I needed a new lock – the list is endless. I wish I had thought about this years ago. Never in a million years did I ever think that I would spend my latter years in penury.
My life was never supposed to be like this.
How on earth did a successful writer, once engaged to be married, and hosting lavish dinner parties, end up single and broke?
In my twenties and thirties, I lived a glamorous life. A roving reporter, constant parties and a dating diary full of eligible bachelors, I was footloose and fancy free. As my friends started to tie the knot with their significant other I didn’t want my life mapped out for me. I wanted adventure, and the novelty of new experiences.
In hindsight, this was the time I should have started to think about settling down and making serious plans for the future.
To make matters worse, when I got my first book deal in the mid-90s, I had the chance to put a deposit on a London flat. But even though I found a lovely space I could afford, I changed my mind and spent the money on holidays and designer clothes instead. That flat is now worth over £750,000.
I have never been one to save money for a rainy day. I always thought things would turn out OK. Being free-spirited, it felt oppressive to forward plan and I always believed I would get married and he would give me security.
Neither assumption proved true. The world has changed, especially the media and publishing world. I am now paid half of what I was years ago.
When I tell people I have written a book, they think I must be minted. This may be the case with a best-selling novel, but not when it comes to the non-fiction and academic fashion titles I have published.
I can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out better if I had put away childish dreams of adventure, and bitten the bullet of conformity.
I remember feeling smug that whilst everyone else was compromising and wiping off baby sick, I was unfettered and free to do as I pleased. Ditto paying into a pension scheme. Silly me – I am now relying on the state to heat and eat.
I’m also a victim of the Single Tax. Without a partner to shoulder the financial burden, I’m covering everything – the bills, astronomic service charges, groceries and Netflix, holidays and occasional treats such as meals with friends. Being single costs you an extra £3,195.24 every year compared to couples of families, according to finance and insurance company Ocean Finance.
I’m lucky to have a flat left to my sister and I by my parents, with a small mortgage to pay – otherwise I’d definitely be in a houseshare. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but I’m now just happy to have a roof over my head and not have to label my milk in the fridge.
The possibility of finding someone to have and to hold before I am in my dotage is looking slim. I had to ditch the upmarket dating sites, subscription fees are costly. Dinner dates are out – no one wants to fork out a fortune for steak tartare if it doesn’t work out. So it’s back to chatting with random guys and seeing where it goes.
When I go for catch-ups my married friends seem so much more grown-up than me. They talk about their children starting new jobs, and soft furnishings from Peter Jones and I felt a shiver of inadequacy. I am still going around in a rucksack and trainers.
I used to think that my unconventional life was better. Who was I kidding? I now wonder if the idea of being able to have a happy, fulfilled life on your own is a myth. I can’t tell you how many times I have come home to a cold house and an empty bed and felt utterly dejected and scared.
I may be able to eat profiteroles in bed, but as old age creeps steadily nearer, my optimistic mantra “things will be alright in the end” doesn’t seem to be working out.
But I am not resentful – I have lived authentically. While I regret not paying into a pension pot to secure a pleasant future, I don’t regret the fun I’ve had, and I’m glad I didn’t marry a man I didn’t love.
I’ve stayed true to myself – I just never knew what the price of it would be.
