'We've got to eat a pastry,' he says. 'We've got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.'

I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don't eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey - I might too!

'But I just had a croissant,' I whisper. 'Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!'

'I had a full English,' he says, desperately. 'I'll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!'

Suddenly, by the frosted glass door, we hear the important man's assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent and hold our breath. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she decides to walk in. It is absolutely terrifying. It's like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she's reaching for the door handle, but then from somewhere on her side of the door a phone rings, and she stalks away. We breathe out.

'I might have to hide some in my desk,' says the important man, desperately. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.

'But we're grown men!' I want to shout. 'Grown men shouldn't need to hide pastries in a desk!' But I don't shout that. Instead, scared, I say, 'good idea', and decide to help him.

He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to his desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain-au-chocolat. We break another pain-au-chocolat in two to make it look like it's been somehow devoured.

'Hey,' I say, 'turn the plate slightly to make it look like it's been constantly to-ing and fro-ing between us.'

'Yes! Good!' says the important man. 'How about crumbs?'

Silently, we sprinkle some crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.

'Perfect,' we say.

We have our meeting. When it's over, we flinch as his assistant strides into the office. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we've been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The important man and myself look at each other, guiltily, and we shake hands and quietly say goodbye.

I don't think I want an assistant, I think, as I leave the building. It is too much like having a boss.