The Swiss tabloids described it as “the fairy-tale wedding of the year”. St Moritz, July — the sun shone from a cloudless sky. The reception was held on a perfectly manicured lawn of a five-star hotel overlooking the glistening lake of Sils-Maria. The Alps in the backdrop were a picture-postcard. This was the most beautiful day of my life, though I also felt a dark cloud hovering. No one could have guessed that behind the smiles lay the painful truth that the chances of me becoming pregnant were as slim as a hurricane developing. My husband was 28, I was 35 and, for me at least, the clock was ticking. We had tried for several years without success and we knew we had to embark on IVF.

We'd had two failed IUI attempts, which had cost us £1,000 each. I had tried every alternative fertility treatment under the sun, from acupuncture to Chinese teas. I didn't smoke, ate five fruit and veg a day, didn't drink, exercised regularly — I led the health-conscious lifestyle every fertility expert would advocate.

Frustratingly, we didn't even know what was wrong — we'd been checked out and were a perfectly healthy couple. “There is absolutely no medical reason why you shouldn't get pregnant,” was the verdict of one doctor. Like so many couples nowadays, we were categorised with “unexplained infertility”. As many as 30 per cent of cases are classified so — it is surely one of the most frustrating terms. The diagnosis left us in disbelief. I sought a second opinion at a clinic in Switzerland. The doctor explained that after four years of trying the chances of conceiving were slim. She suggested I seek counselling to come to terms with the fact I would never have a child.

In an age where man can explore the depths of the ocean, no one could tell me why I couldn't conceive a child. Was this a cruel joke? All kinds of thoughts ran through my mind: maybe I'm doomed, maybe it's a test, maybe I'm being punished because I had an abortion when I was 23. Back then my first novel had just been published and my career had taken off. I wanted to go to New York and not be tied down. “This is payback time,” I thought, for having enjoyed life, for being selfish, for being a free spirit.

“It's all in your mind,” a close friend was convinced. “Just forget you want a baby!” She was right — the baby thing had become an obsession. I sought solace in my work, and my husband and I worked hard at convincing ourselves that life can be great without kids. But I couldn't fool myself — I would always long to be a mother and felt that I was missing out on the greatest adventure I could imagine. I was clinging to the hope that I would suddenly find myself pregnant. I was still trying the holistic approach. According to one self-professed “fertility expert” it was just my chakra that needed sorting. All I needed was a good detox.

I was so desperate I believed anything. It finally dawned on me that I was wasting my time, not to speak of the money. Month after month went by, then one close friend, who had vowed she never wanted children, announced she was pregnant. Her news hit me like a tsunami.

Struggling for air I uttered my congratulations, trying to conceal my raging jealousy. It wasn't fair! Unlike me, she hadn't tried, and she was 43. I was crushed.

We finally decided to go down the IVF route. It was the last resort, the last hope. We agreed we would rather not spend our time trying on the NHS, where the chances are a mere 30 per cent per cycle. If we were going to do this gruelling treatment, we would do it at the place with the highest success rate.

We went to a talk at the Royal Society of Medicine: Dr Mohamed Taranissi, talking about IVF regulation. We knew he was controversial, we had seen the papers — the maverick IVF doctor who played God and made millions. We went with an open mind — after all, his success rates were the highest in the country.

I liked his no-nonsense approach: the opposite of the aromatherapy-loving contingent. A proper doctor. A crisp white coat. Science. Facts. He claimed there was no such thing as “unexplained infertility”, only doctors who don't know better. It was probably that line that convinced me. This was refreshing.

We made a timetable and a budget. It would cost £15,000 for one cycle. It felt like I was taking on a full-time job. Suddenly every single minute of my life was dedicated to treatment. Every day I had to go for blood tests. The injected hormones played havoc with my moods. Every night I cried myself to sleep and often I would wake up covered in cold sweat. Soon the waiting room of the Assisted Reproduction & Gynaecology Centre at Upper Wimpole Street became my living room. I seemed to spend the whole summer there, waiting — for appointments, for results, to be told to come back later so I could wait again. It was also the place where stories were told and listened to in solidarity. The couple who came over especially from Dubai and moved into a hotel. The couple who downsized their house to pay for treatment. The woman who was on her third round, clinging to her last egg. The longing, pain and fear in the waiting room was almost unbearable. For many, Taranissi is their last hope — if he can't fix it, no one can.

What struck me most was the thoroughness with which the clinic operated. I got checked for things I didn't even know existed. Apparently I had a high count of natural killer cells — a common problem where the embryo is recognised as a foreign body and destroyed. Visualising the sperm swimming up the uterus — as I had learned in hypnotherapy (£80 an hour) — couldn't have fixed that; modern medicine did. I had to get IVIG infusions — a blood product administered intravenously — and take corticosteroids. It was meticulous — sometimes I injected myself at 2.30am on the dot. But perhaps this was what made all the difference.

Naomi Penelope is now five months old. Without a doubt she was meant to be all along. When I pick her up in the morning, she squeals in delight. I look at her in awe and I just don't know how I ever managed to live without her.

Zoe Jenny's latest novel is The Sky is Changing, Legend Press, £7.99.