A Celebration Just for Two

The memory of a wedding had haunted Emma Clarke since she was ten. She had been a guest at her cousins ceremony in a grand hall in Manchester, and at first the glittering lights and clinking glasses had seemed magical. But as the evening wore on she watched the bride and groom, drained and trembling after a barrage of bitter! shouts, sitting stiffly at the head table without a smile. Around them the guests leapt from their seats, whirled across the floor, sang at the top of their lungs and threw their arms over each other in reckless joy.

The noise overwhelmed the tenyearold Emma. She felt a pang of pity for the exhausted pair and whispered to herself, *If I ever get married, maybe I wont marry at all* The thought settled like a stone in her chest.

Years slipped by, and when she met James Whitaker, the old doubt faded like a forgotten song. Beside him she could forget the world; there were only two of them, heartbeats syncing in the quiet of a shared night. *Its a wonder to find someone who understands you with half a word, or even a halfglance,* she would murmur as she slipped under the covers. *Im glad I found you, James.*

Emma knew love when it arrived. She adored James for his loyalty, for the way he brushed dust from her shoulders and whispered admiration in the same breath. One evening, while nursing a tea at a cosy café, she confided in her best friend Lucy Hartley.

James and I have a trust that feels like a perfect mirror, Emma said, eyes bright. I love how he respects my opinions, even when they clash with his.

Lucy laughed, a sound that cracked the air. Youre lucky, Em. Full understanding is a rarity. Mike and I are still figuring out our quirks, arguing over everything. I dont even know if I want to marry him yet.

Give it time, Emma advised, thumb tapping the rim of her cup. Youll see.

Lucy sighed. Mum isnt keen on Mike. She says Im rushing.

Emma shrugged. Youll sort it out when the moments right.

When James walked Emma home one crisp autumn night, he paused at the gate, his breath visible in the streetlamps.

Emma, I think its time we got married, he said, voice low but hopeful. What do you think?

She stared at the moonlit pavement, memories of that childhood wedding flashing behind her eyes. Im sure, she replied, steady. But Im not keen on inviting a crowd. I never wanted a wedding like the one I saw as a child.

James chuckled, a soft rumble. Its just a ceremony, love. Nothing more.

People can be loud, he added, but we can make it ours.

Emma lay awake that night, the idea of a small, intimate ceremony looping through her mind like a quiet hymn. She was twentysix; James was twentyeight. Both were past the reckless twenties, ready for something quieter.

The next evening, after work, they met again in the same café, their faces illuminated by candlelight.

James, Im leaning toward a wedding just for the two of us, Emma said, voice barely above a whisper.

For two? How romantic, James replied, eyes lighting up. Picture a grand ballroom, tables set, you in a white dress, me in a tux, candles flickering, soft music playing just the two of us sipping champagne, toasting each other.

Emma laughed, a short, sharp sound. Im serious. I want it to be just us. How will we explain that to our families?

Jamess smile faded a fraction. My parents will think Im breaking tradition. My dad always says, A son must bring his family together. Youre an only child, so Mum will feel the same pressure.

Exactly, Emma snapped, irritation flaring. Our lives, our choices.

James sighed, trying to be philosophical. Tradition is a heavy coat, love.

I dont need a coat, Emma retorted. Id love a tiny chapel on a hill, hidden from the world, where we could be wed.

Hidden, huh? A secret ceremony? James mused, surprised.

Just imagine, Emma breathed, eyes distant. We say I do in a stone chapel, the wind through the rafters, no witnesses but the heavens.

Jamess grin returned. And then we fly off on a yacht for our honeymoon. No big party, just us.

Exactly, she said, nodding. A wedding for two, then a holiday. Thats the plan.

A week later, the two slipped quietly into the register office in London and submitted their notice, keeping the deed from their parents. Two months remained before the wedding, and they hoped the time would bring clarity.

One rainy evening, Jamess mother, Margaret, popped her head into the flat, a teacup steaming in her hands.

Goodness, what are you two up to? I heard something about champagne, she said, eyes twinkling.

Were marking three years since we met, James replied, smiling.

Margaret laughed. I thought you were planning to get married youre both so secretive. She glanced at the notice on the kitchen table. I heard youve filed for a civil ceremony.

James raised an eyebrow. Mum, how do you always know?

Margaret winked. I run the town gossip, love.

Emma tried to interject, Weve applied for a marriage licence, but were still deciding how to celebrate.

Margarets tone hardened. Youll need us to think about it. Get the dress, the rings, and Jamess tux. Thats what families do.

James lowered his voice. We dont want a big bash, just the two of us.

The wedding is still a wedding, Margaret insisted.

Just then, Robert Whitaker, Jamess father, entered, his voice booming. Did I hear talk of a wedding? Finally, something proper! He gestured grandly. Well have it in a restaurant, with guests, as is custom.

James snapped, Why must we follow your script instead of ours?

Roberts face reddened, and he stalked out, his tone final.

Later, as James walked Emma to the door, he muttered, Now its your turn to face your parents. I wonder what theyll say.

Emma grimaced. Probably the same as yours.

At home, Emmas mother, Helen, met her in the hallway, eyes wide. Emma, whats happened? Did you hear from Margaret? They think youre trying to sneak a ceremony.

Emma swallowed. I thought youd support us, but

Helen shook her head. Weve always done it the proper way. Youre not the first nor the last to marry.

Emmas father, George, entered, voice steady. Tradition is what holds families together, love. Well have a proper wedding, then a yacht trip for the honeymoon. Nothing will be changed.

Emma stared at the ceiling, the idea of a tiny, secret ceremony fading like morning mist. She realized James was right: their parents would shape the day in their own way.

When James told his friend Simon about the plan for a twoperson celebration, Simon frowned. I thought youd have a proper do, mate.

James sighed. Our parents are set on a big one. Well see what happens.

The weeks dwindled. The Whitakers argued over floral choiceswhite roses or pale pink peoniesand confirmed a guest list of two hundred. James leaned over the kitchen table, eyes wide at the numbers.

We thought it would be small, he whispered.

Emma nodded, feeling the weight of strangers expectations pressing down.

At the last moment, the Whitakers reassured him. Dont worry. Well handle everything. Well get you to the airport in the morning and whisk you to the coast. Then youll be alone, just the two of you. The promise hung in the air like a fragile promise.

On the day of the ceremony, Emma emerged from the lift in a flawless white dress, her heart racing. James waited at the entrance, handsome in a sleek tuxedo, his grin bright enough to cut through the nervous fog. The restaurants opulent hall swelled with white lilies, soft chandeliers casting a warm glow. Guests rose, cheering, shouting bitter! as the couple exchanged vows. Emma felt a surge of joy; the chaos around her turned into a tide of affection.

Look at this frenzy, she thought, eyes scanning the smiling faces of family and friends. Its beautiful.

The reception sparkled with laughter and clinking glasses. Later, as the evening faded, the newlyweds boarded a private jet, heading for a sunkissed coast. James took Emmas hand, whispered, We finally did itour wedding, then our escape.

She smiled, the wind tugging at her veil. Together, just us.