* * *

I move through a double layer of heavy blackout curtains into the holding room beyond the reception hall. The building we’re in could have been the back store of one of the large groceries or pharmacies on rue des Martyrs around the corner, but now it’s vacant, the typical spot for a pop-up. But Metamuse has put lush red carpeting in the lobby and painted the temporary walling a lacquered oxblood and black, so it looks more like an upmarket Asian restaurant than a temporary art space. But there’s no smell of food. No acrylic smell of glue or paint either, as you might expect – there’s a surprising lack of smell altogether.

There are seven other people in the room with their headphones on, waiting. The two couples who came together cast glances at each other.

‘Put on the blindfold,’ says the silky voice in my ears. Immediately I’m confronted with the first signs of expensive production quality in this show. The prompts are delivered automatically, using pinpoint location tracking, most likely from a chip embedded in the headphones – that’s why we germophobes can’t just plug in our own pods. There’s none of the normal mood-killing ‘Type in 17 on your devices now’ and the audience fumbling and clattering and trying to ignore each other, desperately trying to stay in the bubble that you get in this sort of show.

And that voice. This is not a bot or a student actor flatly delivering scripted lines. Somehow Metamuse has chosen the precise voice I want to hear whispering in my ear as she fucks me. How does Metamuse know the voice of my composite dream lover? Even if they somehow profiled their guests from Fakebook dumps or something to find the perfect match, I just turned up at their show randomly. I feel a little invaded and more enticed than I want to be. I’m meant to be a critic.

Maybe I’m making too much of it. Maybe everyone gets this voice and I’m just in a receptive mood. I’ve had a few drinks, I wasn’t expecting to work tonight, don’t have my armour on; the couple who came into the Coupe were hot. I’ve been primed to comply, haven’t I?

I do as the voice says, unsheathe the blindfold and put it on. The cloth is soft and smells of a scent I know from somewhere.

‘Good,’ says the voice. ‘You’re obedient.’

A tape loop wouldn’t know if I’d complied. My movements are being tracked electronically, or maybe each audience member is being individually guided – that’s unlikely, isn’t it? Shows like this usually have a budget stretching little beyond the director’s coffee and whisky. Either way, I’m being watched. It’s an unsettling feeling.

‘Walk for me, will you?’ the voice now says. ‘Walk towards the sound.’

Which sound? I think – there are lots of sounds. I’m becoming attuned to the shuffling feet of people around me, the low, murmured conversations. Someone brushes against me, mutters an apology. Someone coughs – too close to me, and suddenly I’m stifled. Aware that I’m being watched, not wanting to get in trouble with her, I lift the blindfold anyway, just a little bit, for an orienting peek – but beyond the blindfold, the room is as dark as inside. The lights are off, and it takes me ten or twenty seconds to locate the low red eye of the single emergency light above the exit curtain. The public safety committee would shut this place down in a second.