Mr & Mrs Smith

I’m sitting on a Eurostar bound for Gard du Nord and I’m afraid. Very afraid. I’m reading some blurb about Kube hotel in Paris, where my techno-head Mr Smith is taking me for a seductive sojourn, and there are scary words involved. Words that don’t tally with my idea of frolicking in gay Paree, trench-coat swinging chicly behind me and my shopping bags. There’s ‘synthetic fur curtains’, for starters. Then ‘black mirrors’. And now ‘plastic chairs’. Worse, there are ‘net curtains, trimmed with synthetic fur’ (I’m momentarily plagued by a vision of Anna Ryder Richardson running riot with a budget of €100 and a design team of housewives in orange polo shirts). Hopefully these are translation oversights.

Admittedly, I am a massive technophobe, so what is really scaring me about this hotel is not the decor but its futuristic bent and high-spec gadget count. If you ask Mr Smith how he feels about staying at Kube, though, he is ‘stoked’. OK, he doesn’t actually use that word, but it does capture the vulgarity of his enthusiasm for the list of mod cons in our suite: the ‘plasma tellies’ and ‘digital door openings’ and ‘multi-function flat screens’. Sensing mutiny, Mr Smith mollifies me with news that Kube is home to France’s first ice bar, serving super-chilled vodka shots in glasses made of frozen water across a bar carved from 20 metric tonnes of ice. Now he’s talking my language.

We arrive by taxi from the Eurostar station. It’s not far, but the driver hasn’t heard of the hotel and takes us up an unpromising-looking side street. It’s so narrow I don’t even look up, missing an impressive restored 19th-century façade topped with glass-encased balcony floor. The car pulls through a gated entrance and into a courtyard, where a reception desk and two black-clad staff members occupy a glass cube. This is where we check in – it’s strange and exciting completing formalities in a free-floating outdoor space, but strange and exciting are, it turns out, words that crop up a lot during our stay.

As the main door opens, Mr Smith and I are plunged into what feels like total darkness after the bright spring light outside; we have the strange sensation of instant drunkenness. Not inappropriate for a boutique hotel with one of France’s hippest night-time hangouts at its heart: the spectacular split-level lounge bar is the lynchpin of this ultra-modern traveller’s hub. A relaxed meeting place by day, it transforms by night into a moodily-lit playpen, hung with Eero Aarnio’s 1960s Bubble chairs and complete with live DJs, sassy cocktails and byte-sized bar snacks.

Winding our way through a labyrinth of polished-glass walls, we try not to bump into reflections of ourselves and the receptionist (let’s call her Alpha Female). It’s completely black save for the eerie glow of infrared doorlocks and ultra-violet room numbers, akin to something Stanley Kubrick could have dreamed up on a darkly inspired night. Alpha Female scans our fingertips (there’s nothing as low-fi as keys here – the door locks use fingerprint-scanning technology to work) and I have a quick panic about finding our way back to the room after a few drinks later on.

Our room is a revelation after the profound darkness of the corridor: light floods in from the rooftop terrace outside, illuminating the white furniture and glass-brick wall screening the slick bathroom. Kube takes the 'cube' theme seriously, even in guest rooms, blending gadgetry with home comforts in perfectly proportioned, all-white spaces. There’s a computer that doubles as a TV, which Mr Smith endearingly tells me is simple enough even for me to operate. Our big bed is lit from beneath, making it float in space like a contemporary flying carpet, and any hard edges are softened by tubular pendant lamps, pink Dalí-esque cushions and tactile furry curtains (not disgusting, as I feared, but rather sexy). The only other hit of colour comes from a rose-quartz-coloured Perspex table. All it needs is a pink-haired Harajuku girl from Tokyo and the flash-forward feel would be complete.

La Chapelle is an appropriate place for this glossy pop vision of the future (much like the work of the photographer who shares its name). It’s a reasonable strolling distance from Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur, via artistically graffiti’d shopfronts and colourful African fabric and spice boutiques; the major tourist tick-boxes (the Louvre, Jardin des Tuileries, Eiffel Tower) are a mere Métro ride away. However, tonight we are turning up our noses at Paris and staying in to sample Kube’s nocturnal persona. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever been excited about staying in on a Saturday night in one of Europe’s most dynamic, romantic cities.

Sipping aperitifs in the bar (Moët for me; Starck-label Kronenbourg for Mr Smith) ahead of our pre-booked slot in the Ice Kube, I’m glad I glammed up by donning patent stilettos and a flick of eyeliner: this venue deserves a little effort. The staff are gorgeous, and I try not to drool too obviously over the Thierry Henry lookalike escorting us into the deep-freeze. ‘Let’s get dressed!’ says Alpha Male, waving a polar-explorer’s wardrobe of fleece-lined anoraks and mittens at us. ‘Harrumph,’ grumbles Mr Smith, whose idea of fun doesn’t usually involve extra clothes (or Thierry Henry). Flavoured Grey Goose vodka shots served ‘in the rocks’ and toe-tapping electro beats keep us feeling warm despite sub-zero temperatures, while pulsing coloured lights and sensual slip-slidey surfaces wreak havoc with our sense of place.

Our 30-minute slot is soon over. Downstairs, the main bar is incredibly welcoming, like returning to a fire-warmed chalet after a long day’s skiing; our skin is alive and tingling and the vodka works its magic as blood courses back into chilled hands and feet. It’s incredible sexy. This feast for the senses continues with a surprisingly good dinner eaten almost ‘dans le noir’ (although not quite as blindly as we would be at the eponymous Parisian restaurant). My linguine with morelles is rich and earthy, with a lovely texture, and Mr Smith’s smoked salmon is tastily dressed with cold cucumber ribbons, crème fraîche and caviar.

Back in our suite after a couple more hefty drinks (my Black Russian was barely kissed with cola), we spend a sensuous couple of hours listening to tunes on the computer and chatting about our ‘night in’ while we snuggle in bed. In Paris, it seems, it’s hip to be square – and even hipper to be Kubed.