I'm single at 50. Why? Men hate me being brainier than them, says KATE MULVEY

A recent study found men simply can't handle it if a woman outshines them

Kate believes this is why she's still single

She's a published author and can speak multiple languages

She's 'lost count' of times she's been rejected for being witty and clever



By KATE MULVEY

Smarting: Kate said men find her too intimidating because of her intelligence

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.



'You always have to be the star of the show,' he continued in our bedroom, as he began to systematically work his way through the mini-bar. Apparently I was argumentative, a know-all and an intellectual snob.



What had I done? It should be depressingly obvious. I had dared to dent his fragile male ego.

By speaking in a language Philip didn't know, I had managed to make him - a successful writer, ten years my senior - feel small. How selfish of me to embarrass him in public with my linguistic prowess!



Like so many of the men I've dated, it was clear he expected me to play second fiddle to him at all times. It wasn't the first time we had rowed about such things. One night, we ended up arguing over a BBC4 documentary on the origins of jazz. When he became annoyed that his attempts to outsmart my knowledge on the subject failed, he started singing loudly, to drown me out altogether.



But the pointless fight over the receptionist was the straw that broke the camel's back. Needless to say, our year-long romance didn't last long beyond the flight home.

I was reminded of our contretemps last week, when research in the APA Journal of Personality and Social Psychology confirmed what I'd always suspected - that men simply can't handle it if a woman outshines them. According to the study, rather than bask in the reflected glory of a partner's success, men feel worse about themselves.



'A lot of men feel threatened if a woman outshines them,' says Professor Sandi Mann, psychologist and author of Hiding What We Feel and Saying What We Don't Feel. 'It harks back to cavemen days, when men had to provide the resources. If a woman is too intelligent, a man subconsciously thinks she's taking over his role.'



Still single: She wonders if she could get a man if she acted like a Stepford Wife

For me, this is stating the blindingly obvious. I've lost count of the times men have rejected or insulted me simply because I was brighter, wittier or cleverer than they are.



They have called me 'intimidating', 'scary', 'difficult' and 'opinionated'. Translated, that means: 'You are too clever and I don't like it.'



An older male friend - supposedly tired of me dominating dinner-party conversation - even wagged his podgy finger and told me I would never get married because I was too confident and demanding.



Then there was my dalliance with the criminal lawyer who, whenever we went to a party, criticised my hair, weight and choice of outfit before we set off. He was so terrified I might outshine him socially, he made sure I felt as bad as possible before I'd even got out of the door.





' As far as I'm concerned, a dinner party isn't complete without a bit of an intellectual tussle during dessert'

I'm convinced that the reason I'm still booking a table for one instead of settling down with a significant other is not because I'm a year off turning 50, but because men are so threatened by my intelligence.



I might have a successful career as an author and broadcaster, but I have never been engaged, let alone married, and my longest relationship lasted just seven years.



Sometimes I wonder if isn't all my father's fault - ever since I could talk, he encouraged me to hold my own in an argument. But little did he know, as he exhorted me to 'get a good degree' or add yet another language to my repertoire, he was reducing my chances of getting hitched altogether.



As a child, I went to one of Britain's most academic girls’ schools, Godolphin & Latymer, where I got three top A-levels, then breezed through an Italian and French degree at the University of Kent, getting a 2:1, while keeping up conversational German on the side.



I grew into a bright and confident young woman, keen to flex my intellectual muscles and to never let a man get the last word just because of his sex.



Educated: Kate, pictured in 2000, has always loved reading to broaden her mind on various subjects

My bedside table has always buckled beneath the weight of substantial, intellectually challenging books. I devour cultural documentaries and love nothing more than taking another evening class (Spanish, the most recent; philosophy set to be the next).



As far as I'm concerned, a dinner party isn't complete without a bit of an intellectual tussle during dessert - whether it be on the finer points of Ed Miliband taking on the trade unions, or President Obama playing a high-stakes game with President Putin over Syria.



But little did I know that by honing my neurons and showing my intellectual rigour, I was scuppering my chances of romantic success.



The backlash against my brainpower began in earnest in my 20s, when I was a struggling writer going out with Sebastian, a high-flying City trader. Initially he loved dating a writer - even (or, perhaps, particularly) a constantly broke one, and he had to rescue me by paying for everything. But as my career and social life suddenly took off, his affection turned to resentment.



My career entailed a round of seminars, high-profile dinners and exciting parties. Sebastian might have made million-pound deals but he couldn't handle being my 'plus one'. After three years he told me he'd met someone who 'needed' him. Since then, relationship after relationship has imploded like a sinking soufflé.



It was always the same. At first, men loved my wit and intelligence. 'You're such a breath of fresh air'; 'I love talking to you'; 'You're the first woman I've met who stimulates me,' they'd trill.



No sooner had we become an item, however, their behaviour would change: the more confident I became, the more insecure it made them.



One boyfriend told my father he hated the way I never used short words, when a lengthy one would do. Another would turn away whenever I started to speak. When I asked him why he didn't listen to me, he said, without a hint of irony: 'Everyone else listens to you on the radio, so why should I?'





' I shouldn't have to dumb down my intelligence or omit to mention my achievements just to make myself more attractive'

My boyfriends would speak over me at dinner parties, put me down in public, tell me my books - of which I have published eight - were just stocking-fillers, or simply ask me to keep schtum. In my late 30s, I decided this would be easily remedied by dating older men.



Surely, I thought, an ageing alpha male, secure in his achievements, would not be jealous of his girlfriend's accomplishments? Sadly, I couldn't have been more wrong.



Julian, a handsome 61-year-old lawyer, was a case in point. One night he invited me to meet some of his old friends in Geneva. As I sat there tucking into fondue bourguignonne and making jokes in French, he lashed out, jealous at not being the one getting the laughs.



'Kate's friends are all pretentious wannabes or sad has-beens,' he hissed, desperate to bring me down a peg or two. I felt my eyes prick with tears. We broke up soon after and he went on to marry an unthreatening woman with tidy hair and the personality of a wet rag.



And that's the thing. When it comes to love and marriage, I have watched with depressing regularity so many brilliant men choose beautiful but dull women.



No luck on the dating scene: Kate at a blind date dinner party in 2000, she's still single and believes it's because she's too clever

As a friend of mine said the other week: 'Kate, you are far more likely to get ahead romantically if you push your cleavage, rather than your opinions, in a man's face.'



Perhaps she is right. But it's too late for me to change. Like a lot of career women, after years of looking after myself I have learnt to see men not as protectors but competitors.



Unlike the canny girls who learnt how to flirt with men from an early age, the brainy ones, like me, were too busy with their books to master the art of flattery. Instead we challenge rather than charm, we control rather than compromise. No wonder men find it hard to like us.



Sometimes, I wonder if the confident signals I'm giving out are at odds with what is going on inside. I long to be loved but I'm too scared to be vulnerable - I use my sharp mind to protect my all-too-soft heart against yet further rejection.





Books not looks Four in ten women think a man's education is more important than his looks

I tell myself I shouldn't have to dumb down my intelligence or omit to mention my achievements just to make myself more attractive.



But as I watch a lot of clever women morph into Stepford wives at the merest whiff of testosterone, I wonder whether, by refusing to show any chinks in my intellectual armour, I'm the one who is losing out.



I was sorely tempted to join the giggly man-pleasers last week as I watched a friend of mine, a 48-year-old, highly educated PR executive, swipe a potential suitor from under my nose with a 'dumb blonde' act.



While I ribbed and joshed with him, engaging in a battle of equals, she batted her eyelids and told him in a breathy voice how young and attractive he looked. She ended up with a glass of champagne and an invitation to dinner. I stood there glumly nursing an empty glass.



I reassured myself that I had preserved my dignity. But I couldn't help but wonder if, once again, my brain might have done too brilliant a job of protecting my heart.

