IT WAS a cold miserable day in October when I headed out of London. As I crawled out of town in the rush-hour traffic I had time to watch people heading into work, coats on, shoulders hunched, heads down—summer was over and the promising center forward was on a plane to Rio with a beautician from Malaga. But London didn’t care, she never does when you leave her because she knows for every one that leaves another two arrive. Besides, she was too busy painting on her neon lipstick and dolling herself up in red and gold. Don’t you know, darling, soccer stars are so last season. The theater’s
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