Me vs. The Sorry State of Sorry

By Pierakis Pieri

February 24, 2025

Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Antibes

“Me and you. Just us two. Play the game.”

Fifty thousand thoughts a day, I hear.

Forty-eight per minute.

And these are the ones that rise to the surface,

bobbing up through the decades like persistent debris.

I bite my lip, the memory of those words still acid-sharp. I sit perfectly composed in my tailored pantsuit, only my hands betraying tension as they rest on my lap. The journalist from Le Jeu sits across from me, recorder between us on the glass table catching afternoon light through gauzy curtains. The air conditioning hums too cold. I nod, smile at the question about my “challenging career moments,” buy time with a sip of water. Ice clinks against my teeth.

I answer politely. The words feel hollow in my mouth, sanitised for public consumption. But behind my careful smile, a different conversation unfolds: 

I’m sorry for that night at the cocktail party,

for how my fingers slipped beneath your dress

as I promised you the role. For how I laughed

when you flinched. For telling the director

you were “difficult” when you wouldn’t come upstairs.

I recognise now the harm I caused. I’ve grown.

But what he actually said was:

“That’s how the game works, sweetheart.

Just you and me playing by the rules

everyone knows.”

My hands remain perfectly still on my lap as I finish my answer. 1987. My first major role. The camera lingered on my character arranging blue anemones. I’d been so young then, believing talent was all that mattered.

I maintain eye contact, give a diplomatic answer about resilience. My publicist checks his watch, pen tapping silently–a warning rhythm developed over twenty years together. Inside, I’m somewhere else:

I apologise for trapping you in my office,

for the lock that clicked behind you,

for pushing you against the desk,

for calling you “hysterical” when you pushed back.

I’ve done the work. I understand now. I’m changed.

But what he actually said was:

“Nobody will believe you anyway.

That’s part of the game–

your word against mine.”

My pulse quickens. Early nineties, when fame made me a target rather than protecting me. I brush my hair back, shift on the firm designer couch. The French journalist moves to a question about charity work. My smile remains as my mind continues:

Please forgive me for the unwanted touching

during that photo shoot, for dismissing your discomfort

as oversensitivity, for suggesting you should be grateful

for my attention. I see now how I abused my position.

I’ve learned. I’m accountable.

But what he actually said was:

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was fixing your lighting.

Everyone plays this game,

don’t act so surprised.”

My fingers tighten on the water glass. 1998. A magazine cover that made and haunted me equally.

I offer reflections on my foundation work despite the memories crowding in:

I regret how I cornered you in that elevator,

how I pressed against you, how I offered to make you a star

while my hands wandered where they weren’t invited.

I understand now this was predatory. I take full responsibility.

But what he actually said was:

“You just cost yourself a career.

You should know the game has consequences

for non-players.”

My shoulder blades tense. Early 2000s, when a sliding career made me both more desperate and more vulnerable.

The journalist mentions Kevin Spacey. Something shifts in my expression. My publicist straightens, pen frozen. The air in the room changes as the journalist leans forward, curiosity breaking through his professional mask.

I am deeply sorry for sliding my hand up your dress

at the charity event, for suggesting my donation 

depended on what happened after. For telling the board

you were ungrateful when the fundraiser failed.

I was wrong. I am sorry.

But what he actually said was: 

“You should learn to play the game better.

It’s not personal,

just business.”

I swallow hard. 2010. When I thought I was too established for this to still happen.

I feel myself leaning forward, the wall between public and private thinning. One more memory rises:

I apologise for grabbing you for treating your body

as currency, as something I was entitled to.

For the reputation I helped destroy.

For the silence I bought with my influence.

I have no excuse. I am truly sorry.

But what he actually said was nothing at all.

Just a knowing smile that said:

We both know the game.

All these ghost apologies dissolve into nothing

while Kevin Spacey says sorry and still loses everything.

Man touches man: unforgivable.

Man touches woman: business as usual.

I’ve lost count of the hands that grabbed me.

Their careers flourished.

Mine stumbled when I spoke up.

Me and you. Just us two.

I feel the tightness in my throat. My publicist clears his throat–the danger signal. I meet his eyes, see the slight head shake. Twenty years of warnings.

Something breaks inside me. The careful wall between selves–maintained through countless interviews–suddenly seems absurd. My heart pounds.

I bite my lip. The next words rise from some deeper place, bypassing filters.

“I could name dozens of men who groped me throughout my career. That’s more victims than Spacey ever had. And you know what’s different? Every single one of Spacey’s victims got an apology. I’m still waiting for mine.”

The words hang in the room. I find myself smiling at my audacity. The journalist’s eyes widen, his pen stills. Our eyes meet–something passes between us, transcending boundaries. The recorder clicks off. Silence. ‘Just a game,’ I say softly. He nods once, deliberately. Some things need no explanation.

From the corner, my publicist exhales sharply, calculating damage control.

What do I know about ‘Sorry’?

What do I know?

What remains unsaid and why.

February 28, 2025

– Interview published in Le Jeu.

Three days later, a bouquet of blue anemones arrives at my hotel room. The card reads: 

“For the words that found their voice and those still waiting.

My original title: ‘Le silence des excuses.’

Perhaps someday.”

No signature needed.

Seven days since publication. The journalist’s gesture sits in water by the window–acknowledgement without platitudes or defence. Not all thoughts are created equal.

I no longer bite my lip. Fifty thousand thoughts a day, and now one rises above the rest:

Me vs. you.

Me vs. fiction.

Me vs. the Sorry State of Sorry.

By Pierakis Pieri