‘Uh-huh,’ I whisper through my tears.

‘Good girl.’ Jill strokes my hand before moving away towards her colleague. Then I hear her say, ‘There’s visual disturbance. We need to get her to the hospital asap.’

Before I have a chance to process this and react, I hear Sasha’s voice, and a warm hand grasps mine.

‘Lex, hon. Oh, I knew something wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have let you get back to work without having something to eat and drink.’

‘No… Sash… not your fault.’ I cling to her hand, trying to make out her fuzzy features. ‘My stupid fault… should have listened. Did they see? My team. So… humiliated.’

She dabs at my teary face with a tissue. ‘Don’t worry about that. Everyone’s just concerned. I was so worried when you didn’t wake up at first. I’m still worried…’ She tails off, realising that she’s not helping to keep me calm.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I smile weakly at her blurry profile. ‘Just a silly fall, right? Serves me right… total bridezilla.’

‘Aww, you’re not. You’ve been great.’ Sasha squeezes my hand, but her voice is choked with emotion.

‘Is that a sense of humour sneaking through?’ Jill the paramedic appears above me again, only recognisable by her voice. ‘That’s a good sign. Let’s get you sorted and across to the hospital.’

Several hours later, I’m lying propped up on a trolley in a dreary cubicle within Glasgow Royal Infirmary’s Accident and Emergency department. It’s clinical in every way: the smell of disinfectant, lights that are uncomfortably bright, just a mobile monitor keeping an eye on my vitals and two black plastic chairs for company. The curtain protecting my privacy on three sides is a cold uninviting shade of arctic blue.

I’ve been poked and prodded, stuffed into machines and asked to repeat what happened several times over to different medical professionals. I’m exhausted and sore, with seriously wounded pride. I want nothing more than to go home to my meteor-sized sofa and cuddle up with Dom.

As I’m pondering my chances of getting home, wincing from the razor-sharp pain that intermittently shoots through the omnipresent ache in my head, the curtain to my cubicle is whisked open and Dom appears with an armful of goodies, looking mighty pleased with the bounty from his hunt.

‘Got a couple of sandwiches from WHSmith.’ He plonks his broad, masculine frame down onto one of the plastic chairs, which seems to sigh a little under his weight. ‘Bought your two favourites: free-range egg and watercress, and chicken and avocado mayo. Also got some crisps – those pea sticks you like. Thought you might want some chocolate to cheer you up as well.’

I eye the assortment of confectionery bars on his lap. ‘Thanks, lover. I’ll take the chicken and avocado. And the pea sticks. No chocolate. Behaving like a lunatic bride-to-be and landing myself in hospital is no reason to abandon my pre-wedding diet altogether. Or to indulge in self-sympathy.’

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?’ Dom dumps his offerings on the chair next to him, then hands me my chosen items. ‘No one thinks you’re a lunatic. But you said yourself you thought this happened because you did go too far with your diet. You need to eat to help yourself recover quickly – and you also need a little TLC.’