Good Or Shit: Laura Marling

“Mrs Lattimore!” Came the well-spoken English accent of a woman whose face was framed by a 1920s-style bob haircut to match her 1920s attire. “It's so nice to see you again. I remember when you were just a little girl, playing in the gardens,” she beamed and crossed the name off her list while the so-called Mrs Lattimore stood with an uncertain smile on her lips, not quite sure what to make of it all.

“The Oaks party,” the woman called, “the rest of your party has arrived, please make your way to the drawing room, the footman will show you the way.”

Mrs Lattimore was a fake. She had never been here before, played in the garden as a child, nor had the woman with the list recognised her from anywhere. She was just another ticket holder like the rest of us, playing along with this charade, the charade becoming an increasingly common style of entertainment in London. Tonight's event being Laura Marling's Secret Music Show, the first music gig to be held by the now well-known Secret Cinema. What I'm calling – Dress Ups For Adults.

If you haven't heard of London's Secret Cinema, you should YouTube it. Filmgoers purchase tickets to an award-winning film and everything, including the film, is kept a secret. The only thing you're told is what you have to wear because, when you arrive, the entire world of that film has been recreated. For Lawrence Of Arabia, men rode horses and camels dressed as Arabs and shouted "Allahu Akbar" as they wandered amongst early 20th century British soldiers, and belly dancers shook their hips for hundreds of dressed-up ticket holders sitting on the ground enjoying Middle Eastern fare before the film screened. This is a big event. It involves a lot of preparation and a team of actors who take their roles very seriously.

After enjoying years of success with film, Secret Cinema have decided to branch into music, and Laura Marling, at The Grand Eagle Hotel – an empty 19th century building in Hackney that used to be a school and, of course, wasn't on a map as a hotel because it didn't really exist – is their first event, and my first secret anything experience.

I was miffed to discover that the vintage clothing I was told to wear meant 1920s and not 50s so that as I walked through the croquet field toward what can only be described as Downton Abbey, I looked like a slut showing too much calf. But as we wondered through billiard rooms and smoking rooms and drawing rooms and dining rooms, while maids and footmen scurried about and lords and ladies sipped cocktails, I forgot all about my Grace Kelly-style ballet skirt and got right into it.

I mean, this is fun. This is beyond the theme parties you throw in your backyard. I haven't played this kind of dress-ups since I was a little girl climbing the plum tree in my backyard, whipping my dog with a limp fern, pretending I was Catwoman. These people go all out and the staff doesn't drop the act for a second. I watched a maid polish a grandfather clock for half an hour.

We sat down in the dining room for chilled almond soup with sour cherry juice, the latter served in a syringe for you to plunge into the soup and which I managed to do with such force, the soup erupted all over my face. Followed by roasted quail which took 45 minutes to eat because we daintily pulled it to little pieces with our knife and fork, too afraid someone would judge us if we picked it up with our hands and started gnawing at it like it was KFC. Dinner was accompanied by live music, a lovely '70s-folk-style three-piece with a singer who sounded exactly like Joni Mitchell only no one knew who they were and they weren't on any of the event info - must have been a secret.

Not long after they finished their short set, we were hurried out into the long hallway to watch Laura Marling play a version of Springsteen's Dancing In The Dark from the second floor balcony. With the lights turned off, twilight streaming through all the stained glass windows and maids slowly sprinkling rose petals on the guests below, it was pretty magical. One song and then back to the quail.

I've seen Laura Marling perform before at some special triple j event in a church in Paddington a couple of years ago. It was magical. Her music, always so exquisitely haunting, was completely enchanting in that small venue with incredible acoustics. She was funny, in her softly spoken self-deprecating way and very likeable.

The other night at Downton, Marling played her full set at the ball, in the ballroom – a few hundred people standing in front of a stage in a converted gym hall. “They say it's typical of English people to get a cold in the summer... I have a cold,” she quipped. And occasionally her smooth vocals broke from the strain of it, or she played the wrong chord and had to start again. I didn't mind any of this, you'd have to a complete arsehole if you did, and the vibe in the room was we're-all-friends-here-human-girl-you're-doing-great.

But to be honest, this is where the magic spell broke. Marling was not in costume and all the effort put into the rest of the mansion seemed to stop here - it was just a gym hall, with Laura Marling playing in it, and it was definitely 2013. This is a fantastic way to see music, it's a whole experience, but they should have kept up the rouse until the final curtain call.

Two days later I woke up with a cold. Yep, Laura Marling gave me a cold.