Indecent proposals

I'm still only 25, but I've already had 20 men propose to me. My first proposal, when I was 15, came after spending just one evening with a man. I've laughed off most offers with the standard line that I'm far too young. But I have been engaged four times - and although it's been close, I've never quite made it down the aisle and said, "I do." I'm not a romantic and when I was young I never used to dream about my wedding dress. My technique with men is simple. There are two things a girl should always do: treat 'em mean and they really do stay keen, and, second, be happy with yourself.

Men quickly realise if you're desperate: it's as if they have a sixth sense. When I go out, I'm with girlfriends to have a laugh and a few drinks rather than to pull. I'll flirt with men, then I'll go home alone. I never spend the night with them and it's very apparent that I'm not expecting to see them again.

I grew up in Hampstead with my mum, a psychotherapist, and my older twin sisters. My dad emigrated to South Africa when I was a year old. When I was 18 I went to Cambridge to study history. It was then that I first got engaged. I met Michael when I was on the rebound. A few months into our relationship I became ill with a serious kidney infection. I was in hospital, very thin and on a drip - I looked terrible. One day, Michael gripped my hand and, with tears in his eyes, said, "I love you so much, please don't die - will you marry me?" I looked at him through my over-medicated haze and said, "Oh, all right then."

Michael was incredibly romantic - he was constantly buying me presents - and in a way he would have been the perfect husband. He gave me a beautiful ring - a huge diamond - and, because his father was in the civil service, we would be allowed to get married in Westminster Abbey. When he told me that, my heart beat even faster: it was going to be the best wedding. We were engaged for two years because I wanted to graduate and walk straight into my fairy-tale wedding.

Everything was arranged. I had bought a £5,000 dress by Lacroix, we had two white Rolls-Royces booked, the flowers were ordered, we had dresses for my six bridesmaids and we would be spending £20,000 on our reception at the Berkeley Hotel. For our honeymoon we would spend five days at the Hotel de Crillon in Paris, followed by two weeks at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in Monaco.

We had always argued, but it seemed to be getting worse. Two months before the wedding, I had dinner with an ex-boyfriend, who declared his love for me. Although I didn't say yes, we ended up having the best sex I'd had in two years and I knew I couldn't miss out on that for the rest of my life. Also, if I could sleep with someone else, enjoy it and not feel guilty, I thought I must be with the wrong person.

Two days later, I called the whole thing off. I'm not a martyr; I couldn't get married just to make everyone else happy. Michael was devastated. Although my family loved him, they were relieved: they knew I was too young. I gave the ring back and my mum returned the dress to Harrods - she managed to get a refund after pretending that my fiance had been killed in a car crash.

Two weeks after finishing with Michael, I met Jake in a club and we began seeing each other. He was the antithesis of Michael - tall, blond, cool - and it was that instant rebound reaction. I was 21 and he was 33 and we quickly became involved. One day, we met for lunch in Hampstead and ended up having a row: I was out clubbing with my girlfriends every weekend and he wanted me to stop. I was thinking about finishing with him when he suddenly screamed, "You're not going to leave me, we're getting married!" So I just agreed again. We'd only been seeing each other for three months, but it was such a lovely day and I really hoped it would work out. This time I was given a ruby ring.

We pottered on for a few more months but kept arguing - he was very controlling - so in the end I phoned him to end it. He wasn't there, so I dumped him by answerphone and sent that ring back, too. I think he was stunned that I had left him. None of my friends or family had liked him and I was really relieved.

I met "number three" the week after I left Jake. At that time I was always out late at Cafe de Paris, Chinawhite, Titanic - places where you'll meet decent young men - because I had given up my job as a corporate head-hunter (now I'm exploring my options). I walked into the VIP section of Cafe de Paris and there was the best-looking guy I had ever seen. He was called Thomas, but was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt.

Thomas was great fun. He was 36, I was 22, and we went out for nearly a year. He had grown up in Marbella, and it was when he took me out there to meet his family that it all went wrong. On our first night there, he sat me down and quite dispassionately told me that we were going to marry, how many bridesmaids I could have and when we'd have children.

It was the least romantic proposal I had ever received and I was very indignant. I loved him, though, and said I needed time to think. He called me a week later and we met for dinner, when he produced a lovely diamond ring. He'd even bought me a huge box of La Perla underwear - - all in the right size.

He seemed so genuine and we'd been so happy together that I said yes. Again. It only lasted a few months, though, because he was too dictatorial. Life's too short to be in a dead relationship. So I called it off and gave the ring back.

I had originally dated Damian when I was 17 and he was 15 years older. I bumped into him again about a year ago in a bar - he was 40 and still good-looking and we ended up going out. He wasn't particularly nice, but I'm attracted to bad boys - I like to beat them at their own game. One night I was at his house and he said something I didn't like. We started to argue.

When I said I wanted nothing more to do with him he flung himself at me and said, "You're not walking out of my life again, Kate! You're going to have to marry me!" I remember thinking, "Oh, not again!" He told me to look in his desk and there was a box with an exquisite flowershaped ring in it along with a scrap of paper that I'd written my phone number on and given to him when I was 17. I wasn't in love with him, but the fact he'd spent all those years thinking about me was incredibly flattering, so I said yes.

We finally finished about six months ago. He jumped to some ridiculous conclusions after his best friend declared his feelings for me; nothing had happened between us and I loathed Damian's lack of trust, so that ring went back, too.We're still on good terms.

Most of my friends trust me not to make a fatal mistake permanently. I think after four broken engagements they've decided not to worry about me. They have voiced their concerns but understand it's my decision.

Invariably, men seem to think I'm "good marriage material" - I'm independent, intelligent, and men like the fact that other men have wanted me, which I think is ludicrous. I think all of them have respected my decision to leave them: better a broken engagement than a broken marriage.

I've said "Yes" so often because I can always get out of it later if I need to. If I ever do get as far as the church, there'll be a fire escape. I hate to make people unhappy, but at the end of the day, it's their problem. I'm not embarrassed. The man who ties me down will have to do it quickly. I still really like the idea of being married and when it does happen, I want it to be for keeps. But in the meantime I should probably stay away from Vegas.