Date Diaries: The Social Media Consultant Whose Date Was Very Instagram Vs Reality

Date Diaries is an online Grazia franchise chronicling the anonymous adventures of those involved in the ever complicated and increasingly unbelievable world of modern dating. To submit your story, fill out the form below.

This week, Toni a 28-year-old heterosexual social media consultant from London realised the perfect date isn't all it's cracked up to be...*

I’ll let you in on a secret… I have a collection of saved Instagram posts that are dream date inspiration. I know, I know, that is absolutely pathetic. But if you don’t have at least one deeply embarrassing collection on Instagram, you’re doing it wrong.

The folder is an assortment of clichés: beautiful skylines, champagne glasses clinking and tall, dark and handsome men in suits. In an ideal world, my date sends a car to pick me up, greets me outside my favourite rooftop bar and has a bottle of champagne chilling on ice as we arrive at a perfectly selected table to watch the sunset.

You may have noticed, there is one huge expectation missing from that dream sequence: the date actually going well. Call me what you want, but I don’t necessarily need fireworks, belly laughs or an intellectual match – I mean, I’m funny and smart enough for the both of us – but my ideal scenario does at least include who can engage in good conversation and take initiative.

Rema* seemed like all of these things, although I have to admit we had only spoken for a few minutes before we met for our date. He’d approached me on a night out in Soho and told me he was taking me on a date the next day. I was newly single, just out of a relationship were I’d consistently been made to feel like I was expecting too much. This guy was assertive, gentlemanly and smooth and even just the way he introduced himself felt like I was entering a dating world I could never have expected with my ex. I was 22 so… I was easily impressed.

The next evening we met in Hyde Park for our date. He was dressed head to toe in Tom Ford. Well, he did work at the Tom Ford store – but still, the fact this man was walking around on a summer day in a suit made me feel like I’d just entered an episode of Suits and was on a date with Harvey Spectre.

We strolled through the park on what looked at the outset to be a random path, but was clearly a meticulously thought-through route because we ended up at a sweet shop in Mayfair he wanted me to see. Clarification: this was a healthy sweet shop… they sold dried bananas. And he bought some. Think of that what you will.

Afterwards, we walked to the hotel we were having drinks in, entering behind an elderly couple. The older man was also in a suit, his date was in fur. ‘This is the prestige life you should’ve always been living,’ I thought to myself, as we entered the lift with this clearly rich couple, my date making polite banter with them like an actual grown man.

We arrived at the top floor and Rema walked with purpose over to a specific table with an ideal view of London’s skyline. I was beginning to realise, this man was a seasoned professional at dating.

As I took my seat – on his order – he went to speak to the waiter who promptly arrived with lychee martinis and a bowl of peanuts. Now we were out of the busy London streets, with no activities or people-watching to distract us, we had to make conversation. It was just fine. He wasn’t particularly engaging or funny or interesting, but at least it wasn’t awkward.

After drinks, he had made us reservations at Benihana, so made our way down there where he had requested a table out of the hustle and bustle of family tables. At the time, I thought Benihana was the pièce de résistance of dating locations. ‘A fancy restaurant where the man cooks in front of you?’ I thought. ‘What kind of rom com world am I living in?’ More com, apparently – because it turns out, if you have curly hair, you cannot go to Benihana.

While everyone else was enjoying the cooking performance, I was increasingly uncomfortable. I could feel my perfectly blow-dried hair going lop-sided, unable to cope with the steam coming off the hot plate. By the time our meal was ready my barnet was triangular. ‘Are you okay?,’ Rema asked me, in a way that felt more self-conscious than concerned. ‘I think the steam has done something to your hair.’

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and fixed my hair as well as I could, at the same time processing how uncomfortable I was at his tone. This man seemed to care a lot about what I thought of him, but it was clear he also cared a lot about what others thought of me. Nevertheless, I powered through. And seemingly, so did he – as he soon brought up the next stop on his professional date tour. What he suggested though, kind of terrified me.

‘Do you salsa?’ he asked.

‘Obviously not’, I thought to myself, replying to him with somewhat more grace – but all I could think was: I’m 22 and you're 26, why are we pretending we salsa?! At this point, I was realising that this luxe life – while great in theory – wasn’t all it seemed. ‘Do I actually want this life?’ I thought. ‘Or, am I just too accustomed to men who don’t make an effort?’

As my inner monologue continued, he continued to pull out the sort of power moves that impressed me in the first place. When the bill came over, he slipped his card into the receipt wallet without even looking at it. It was a small gesture, but it impressed me nonetheless and I decided the answer to the latter question was: yes.

But then we arrived at the salsa bar. Since I’d told him I couldn’t salsa, I expected we would just have a drink and watch others. Oh no, this man was dancing whether I could or not. Watching the crowd, I could see he was itching to get involved – as was a woman on the dancefloor. ‘You go ahead,’ I told him, half-joking and fully expecting him to say no.

Within seconds, he was on the dancefloor with the woman who had been eyeing him up since we walked in. His eyes? On me the whole time. So I’m standing at this bar, watching the man I’m on a date with dance with another woman, as he watches me intently. I have never been so creeped out in my life.

Now, he was a great dancer – Strictly standard, I would say. But I couldn’t help but cringe watching his hips swing about. And while he was clearly trying to make it clear to me that he wasn’t interested in this other woman, all I wanted was for him to be. Because, what had started out as a literally picture-perfect evening had descended into dating disaster territory.

And it hit me. This date was everything my Instagram collection could’ve dreamt up, the man ticked all my boxes. And yet, it was just…bad. The amble through Hyde Park was rom-com sweet but filled with awkward getting-to-know-you chatter. The rooftop bar was an idyllic setting, but the conversation was dry. Benihana was first-date dream-worthy, but I’d felt judged and insecure.

My perfect date was actually… pretty shit.

At the very least, it made me realise Instagram vs reality doesn’t just apply to bikini pictures. Just as I decided not to see Rema again, I also decided to stop adding to my dating Instagram collection. That perfect date I’d been dreaming about? It doesn’t mean anything without the perfect man.

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