The board dissolved the old guest-experience department.
Several managers resigned.
Others were dismissed.
A formal external audit was commissioned.
Employee reporting channels were created.
Guest complaints were routed to an independent team.
And most importantly, the company changed how staff were evaluated.
No employee would receive a performance penalty for accommodating a legitimate guest complaint.
No manager could create unofficial guest-screening lists.
No employee could invent payment requirements.
And every refusal of service required documented, reviewable justification.
The changes were not glamorous.
There were no champagne bottles.
No television cameras.
No applause.
But Malcolm considered them more important than the headlines.
The Boardroom
Three months later, the Valecrest board invited Malcolm back.
Not to purchase the company.
To discuss a partnership.
The company had lost value.
Its reputation had been damaged.
Several properties were under review.
Investors wanted stability.
Edward Bell had resigned.
A new interim chair had been appointed.
Her name was Elaine Porter.
She had spent thirty years in hospitality.
Unlike the previous leadership, she didn't begin the meeting by discussing money.
She began with an apology.
“Mr. Reid, we failed.”
Malcolm nodded.
“You did.”
“We failed employees.”
“Yes.”
“Guests.”
“Yes.”
“And shareholders.”
“Yes.”
Elaine took a breath.
“Would you still consider investing?”
Malcolm looked at the documents.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether the company has actually changed.”
Elaine smiled.
“How would you measure that?”
“Ask employees.”
“We did.”
“Then ask them again in six months.”
She nodded.
“And guests?”
“Ask them too.”
Elaine leaned forward.
“Would you return to the Valecrest Grand?”
Malcolm smiled.
“I never really left.”
She laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
He looked through the window at Manhattan.
“Hotels are strange businesses.”
“How so?”
“You can spend a billion dollars on marble and chandeliers.”
Elaine waited.
“But if a guest walks through the front door and feels unwelcome, none of it matters.”
Elaine nodded slowly.
“What would you do?”
Malcolm turned back.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Nothing?”
“Fix the small things.”
The Night Shift
Six months later, Malcolm returned to the hotel at 11:40 p.m.
He was wearing jeans.
A dark sweater.
No suit.
No assistant.
He approached the front desk.
A young employee looked up.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
“Checking in?”
“Yes.”
The employee smiled.
“Name?”
“Malcolm Reid.”
The employee typed.
Then looked up.